Everything You Want
by Noraque
Summary: As the BAU investigates a series of domestic terrorism strikes around New York, Emily struggles to rebuild the life she had before her 'death.' She crosses paths with brash bicycle courier Scott Jackson, who is caught up in the investigation, and soon the case becomes personal. But how far will she go to protect those she loves...and what will be the consequences?
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

"Tell us what we want to know!"

The punch to her jaw came when she didn't answer. It rattled her jaw and sent a wave of pain shooting down her spine. Her head snapped back and then rolled to the side.

"Tell us, goddammit!" When she still didn't answer, he struck her again- harder.

Emily hissed in pain and spat out a mouthful of blood. She was sure he'd loosened some of her teeth and given her at least one black eye, not to mention the countless bruises everywhere else on her body. The cold metal of the cuffs locking her hands behind the chair cut into her flesh. Her body was so sore, the slightest movement caused every nerve to light up like a Christmas tree.

Still, she looked up at her assailant defiantly. "I'm not telling you _anything_," she growled.

The giant mountain of a man leaned in close to her face; she leaned back involuntarily as the stink of his breath swept over her. "You got a death wish, fed?"

"You keep breathing on me and I might just consider that."

The man let out an abrupt laugh. "Cocky bitch, ain't ya?"

"That's what happens when you experience hell on Earth."

"Oh trust me," the man grinned. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Really?" Emily smirked. "I very much doubt that."

"Doesn't have to be this way you know. You could end this right here and now."

Emily chuckled humorlessly. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You know, I like the way you think." The man got right up in her face again. "I can think of a few ways we can have some fun. A few _games_..."

"I doubt that. I only like games that last longer than five seconds."

This time when he hit her, he _did _knock out one of her teeth. Emily's head snapped to the side and when she spat out more blood, one of her back molars went flying out, skipping across the metal floor.

"There's a lot more where that came from, _fed_." He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up as far as the cuffs would let her. Emily gasped and tried to get a breath of fresh air, but the man's hand completely cut off the flow of oxygen to her brain.

"I guess you think you're real fuckin' funny, don'tcha?" He released his grip just as darkness was starting to appear on the edges of her vision and dropped her back down onto the chair, where she quickly sucked air into her lungs. "You government people walk around all high and mighty with your badges and guns and think you're gods or something. Well, here, you ain't _shit_!"

"This coming from a man whose breath smells like he just ate some?" Emily retorted, completely ignoring the fact that this would only likely provoke another violent response.

The man reared back and struck her again, this time directly in the nose. Emily couldn't stifle her cry of pain as the force instantly shattered it, sending blood flying across the room. She could feel it run down her face and into her mouth. He grabbed her by the jaw and pinched down hard on either side, forcing her mouth open. "Since you like to talk so much, let's see how well you do it after I rip out every single one of your teeth."

He shoved the fingers of his free hand into her mouth, grabbed hold of one of her upper incisors and started pulling. Sweat rolled down Emily's face and pain shot through her nerves as the roots of the tooth in question begun pulling and straining under the man's strength. She could almost feel it starting to separate from her gums; the nerves began firing more intensely...

The door behind the man burst open and the man immediately let go of Emily. Her head, throbbing as though a sledgehammer had just done a number on it, dropped down to her chest.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Emily's well-trained ears immediately recognized the voice of the newcomer; she'd only heard it a few times before but there was no question- this was their UnSub.

No- _her _UnSub.

"The bitch was asking for it!" The other man was shouting. "Mouthing off to me!"

"And your way of getting information out of her was to make it so she can't talk?" There was a loud sigh. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around. Go to Room B- now."

The larger man hesitated for a moment, but then got up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Sorry about that," the UnSub said. "Sometimes Rook can get a little... _overexcited_." He smiled as he approached Emily. "Well, well." He knelt down to face her and Emily lifted her head, finally seeing the man unobstructed in front of her. "Nice to finally meet you, Agent Prentiss."

"Nice to meet you to too." Emily spat another mouthful of blood, right into his face. "You son of a bitch."

Undeterred, the UnSub wiped his face and then delivered a vicious backhand to hers. Emily chuckled. "Is that all you people know how to do? How are you going to launch your glorious _revolution_ if you don't try a little variety?"

"Trust me, Agent Prentiss, tonight, we're going to have all the time in the world to try some variety." The UnSub stood up. "I can guarantee you won't like any of it."

"Big surprise."

"Indeed, but I'm hoping it doesn't come to that. You're a smart woman, Agent Prentiss; you ought to know what's worth holding onto and what's not."

"I know that unlike some people, I actually know where my loyalties lie."

"Do you? You may not realize it, but you and I have more in common than you might think."

"Doubt it," Emily said. "The people I work with actually have something in their heads. It's called a brain; you might want to pass that off to your henchmen."

"Amusing. But utterly pointless. Your stalling tactics can't help you here. And neither can your team. Though I must give you credit for trying. Always trying to be one step ahead."

"Oh, you know," Emily shrugged. "I'm a girl who hates being tied down."

"Funny. But again, utterly pointless. Now, are you going to be a good girl and tell us what we want to know?"

Emily stared up at the man, all traces of amusement or sarcasm gone from her face. There was only anger; venom and fire literally danced in her eyes. "Go fuck yourself," she responded defiantly.

A smile spread over his face. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He slowly walked around behind her. Emily tensed and braced herself for another strike. But instead, he took hold of her chair and turned it in a semi-circle to face the other side of the room. The vast majority of the far wall was made up of a glass window, completely dark despite the light overhead.

"You see, Agent Prentiss," the UnSub was saying, "despite what you might think, I _am_ a true American patriot. In fact, I'm more than that; I'm a businessman who believes in absolute fairness and equality. In _opportunities_. So because I'm so fair, I'm going to give you the opportunity to test how far your loyalty to your corrupt, destructive government truly is."

"You can take your opportunity and shove it up your ass," Emily growled. "I'm not telling you anything. It doesn't matter what you do to me."

"You?" The man sounded genuinely surprised. He chuckled, "My dear Agent Prentiss..." He leaned down so he could speak directly into her ear. "_Whoever said we were talking about you?_"

Emily's brows furrowed in confusion, but didn't get a chance to voice what he meant by that; at that moment, the glass in front of her suddenly lit up, revealing that it was actually a window into the next room. Much like the room she was in, it was made of solid steel with a single light in the centre and pipes across the ceiling. As her eyes adjusted to the sudden light, Emily's focus was drawn to the centre of the room.

The image was fuzzy at first. Then it grew clearer, sharper, more focused- until even a blind person could clearly see what it was.

Emily's heart immediately froze. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. Her stomach clenched and starting turning over. She could feel the bile travelling up her throat; it took a tremendous effort to force it back down.

The young man was hanging from a pipe in the ceiling; his wrists were secured to the pipe by heavy chains which hung down and suspended him almost in mid-air. He had been stripped completely naked; despite the cold temperature underground, his entire body was covered in sweat. A strip of duct tape sealed his mouth shut. His eyes fluttered unfocused; a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from his temple. He seemed barely conscious and unaware of the situation around him.

"Hmm," the UnSub said in a mock thoughtful way. "Now what was that you were saying about not telling us anything? I think you may have to revise your statement, Agent Prentiss."

Emily stared in horror at the scene in front of her. She was suddenly aware that her heart had come back alive and was now threatening to explode out of her chest.

In the other room, the man known as Rook entered and walked up to the restrained man. Studying his captive for a minute, he suddenly reared back and punched him straight in his stomach. The smaller man's eyes jerked open and a cry of pain, muffled through the tape, escaped his mouth as his abdomen caved inward. The area around his wrists turned white as they strained against the chains which dug into his flesh.

"No," Emily murmured horrified under her breath. She leaned towards the window. "No!"

"Oh, I'm afraid that won't work," the UnSub was saying. "It's one-way glass, Agent Prentiss. Simply put, you can see and hear everything that goes on in that room, but he can't hear or see anything in here."

He leaned in close. "There's one thing you should know about Rook; the man may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows a hell of a lot more than just punches and kicks. He's become quite an expert in the art of physical pain and torture. And that's exactly what he's going to start demonstrating on that poor, unfortunate man. A friend of yours, isn't he? Or is he more?"

Emily couldn't bring herself to speak.

"You've got a choice here, Agent Prentiss. You can either tell us what we want to know about the BAU, spare both yourself and your boyfriend in there a lot of pain. Or you can maintain your loyalty to your corrupt friends and have a front row seat to the most horrific scene you will ever witness.

"So, Agent Prentiss, _what's it going to be?_"

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**After searching through these fics and seeing so many Reid/OFC stories (which are probably written mostly by fan-girls), I decided to do something that seems to be rare here and do the opposite- a Prentiss/OMC story! As a young guy who happens to find both Emily Prentiss and Paget Brewster EXTREMELY attractive (is she really in her early FORTIES?), I decided to do this for all the fan-boys who probably drool every time she comes on screen (not that I'm one of them...)**

**Just FYI, there WILL be a few Lemon scenes in this story. I'll post a warning in the preceding chapter if that's going to happen in case if that's not your thing and you want to skip over them (though you may miss important information if you do that). They won't happen VERY often, but they will be there.**

**Also, just as a side note, this is NOT a self-insert (apart from the occasional opinion or characteristic if it makes it more interesting). Much as I wish I could say I own Emily Prentiss and/or Paget Brewster, I don't... Oh well, on with the story!**

**Please review!**


	2. I-1

_Six Weeks Earlier..._

Emily let out a loud groan as the coffee she was pouring spilled over the side of the cup and onto the table. _How many damn times was this going to happen?_ All but slamming the pot down, she scooped up a wad of paper towels and started mopping up the mess, hoping that no one would have caught her mistake.

Not so lucky in that department unfortunately, as at that moment Morgan walked by, chuckling with a big grin on his face. "Good morning, Emily." He stopped to fill his own cup up beside her. "Haven't we done this before?"

"Yeah, and it isn't any better this time," she groaned.

"Bad night?"

"You could say that." She deftly tossed the paper towels in the trash and tentatively filled her cup with what was left in the pot.

"What was it? Another bad date who didn't like Kurt Vonnegut?" He asked teasingly.

Her answer was deft and uninviting. "No."

Morgan nodded. "Alright, that's cool. I've been there. If you wanna talk about it, I'll be here." He took his coffee and started to walk towards his desk.

"Morgan...wait." He stopped as she hurried to catch up with him. "I'm sorry, it's... it's just complicated. I guess I just don't know how to describe it."

He shrugged. "I'm listening."

"It's not that he didn't like Vonnegut. I don't know if he liked or didn't like him at all. He never showed up."

"Ah," Morgan nodded. "I get it."

"Really?" This time it was Emily's turn to to tease. "Derek Morgan, irresistible ladies man, has been stood up?"

"Hey, I never said it happened often!" Morgan retorted jokingly. "Don't get all carried away here!"

She grinned, then shook her head. "I don't know what happened. Everything seemed great when we made the arrangement. Maybe he decided later on that it was a mistake and wasn't worth it."

He shrugged. "Well, if he thought that, it's his loss." He grinned. "And a very bad loss, I might add."

"You're not turning on the charm to try and flirt with me, are you?" She teased, giving him a playful shot in the arm.

"I don't know if I should tell you. My charm's so strong, it might just kill you." Morgan teased back, then stopped and winced a moment later in realization as Emily raised an eyebrow. "Aw, damn Emily, I'm sorry. I completely forgot-"

She waved him off. "It's okay. I've dealt with that. You don't have to tiptoe around me every time someone mentions that word."

Morgan was unconvinced. "You sure? Things like that just don't go away overnight."

"I know, but really, I'm okay."

He nodded. "Alright, well if you need to talk about it, I'll be around."

She nodded in response and the two sat down at their individual desks. Morgan still didn't look satisfied but fortunately didn't press her and was soon caught up in an argument with Reid over some trivial matter.

Emily sighed and leaned back in her chair. Truth be told, she felt a lot more weight on her shoulders than she let on. Faking her death had been hard enough, but coming back from it was almost harder. Sure, it had been torture for her to put her friends through the pain of thinking she was gone; she had never quite forgiven herself for that despite telling herself that it was necessary. But it was also hard for her to readjust to the life she had before her 'death'.

Spending several months officially dead was something that generally was hard to explain to anyone. Her mother, of course, had worried about how it would reflect on her and how it could potentially affect her own career, something which had infuriated Emily. She got that appearance had always been a major part of Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss' concerns about anything, but couldn't that have come after she had talked to her daughter and made sure she was alright?

Then, of course, was the difficulty of how and what to explain to people she'd just met. Emily was a notoriously private person as a whole, but this brought secrecy to a whole new level. It especially brought her potential dates into a very awkward position.

_What do you like to do for fun?_

_Well, in the time I was officially dead, I..._

Yeah. Definitely not the best way to start a date.

The fact was that Emily was sorely lacking in the relationship department. Early in her life, her mother had attempted to arrange 'suitable' relationships for her and was sorely disappointed when they never lasted more than a few weeks. Unfortunately she wasn't much better off making her own dates either; more than a few of the men she had dated in the past were never interested in anything long-term, and Emily had no interest in becoming a 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am' type of woman.

Maybe she was just destined to never be attached to anyone for the rest of her life. How could she at this point? Most of the men she had dated were _at least_ five years younger than she was. At forty-one, she was by no means young; her prospects of finding the right man, let alone having children, seemed to fade more and more every day.

So maybe last night wasn't so bad after all. Maybe it was life's way of telling her that she was doomed to be single for the rest of her years. If that was so, she'd better start stocking up on the Tylenol; the hangover she'd woken up with this morning made the one she'd had that time in Las Vegas seem like a mere buzz.

"Conference room. New case." Her thoughts were interrupted as Hotch walked briskly past the desks. Emily paused for just a moment before following Hotch, Reid and Morgan to the room in question. The agents took their seats around the table where JJ, Rossi and Garcia were already gathered.

"What have we got?" Morgan asked.

"Okay, brace yourself, my lovelies," Garcia started. "NYPD have reported a string of bombings in and around the New York area. The first one was two weeks ago in Queens and it's only picked up from there."

"Why haven't we heard about this until now?" Emily asked.

"Targets were relatively low scale in the beginning. The first bomb was sent through the mail to and exploded in the delivery truck. The driver was wounded but did survive." The tech analyst brought up a picture on the screen of the destroyed vehicle. "There was no evidence of where the package was headed. In the following days, similar bombs were sent to a church in Manhasset, a mosque in Manhattan, a synagogue in Albany and an abortion clinic in Long Island." She brought up more pictures. "Total numbers were eight dead and fifteen wounded."

"Sounds like we're dealing either an extremist or a far-right group," JJ pointed out.

"Well, see, that's where things get complicated," Garcia went on. "The latest target was a man named Ryan Howard, unemployed former IT specialist and recently one of New York's most prominent neo-conservative bloggers. He was actually under investigation by the NYPD for allegedly trying to incite violence through mass protests." She brought up another picture. "The bomb was attached to the underside of his car and exploded just as he was leaving his apartment two days ago."

"Are we sure it's the same as the other attacks?" Hotch asked.

"Fragments of TNT and other components collected at the scene match those found at the other sites."

"If this is a extremist or extremists, then their targets are awfully small," Emily pointed out. "Typically such UnSubs attack large scale targets so they can maximize the damage and increase the impact of their message."

"Not necessarily," Reid pointed out. "Mass destruction is not really as relevant as the aftermath. The Unabomber Ted Kaczynski's mail bombing spree lasted nearly twenty years and only ended up killing three people. Typically domestic terrorists believe that as long as their acts are carried out and it changes society's views or actions, their objectives will have been achieved."

"The fact that the UnSub has progressed from shipping bombs through the mail to personally putting them where they want them shows escalation," Rossi pointed out. "It could be mean they're getting bolder."

"If they're getting bolder, then it's likely they're plotting more devastating attacks," Morgan added. "All of these bombings could be their way of building up to one massive strike."

"And they've already had two days to arrange their next one," JJ said. "Given the time lapse between the other bombings, it's likely they'll be planning to carry it out in the next day or two."

"What about the media focus?" Hotch asked.

"News spreads like a wildfire with all the different media sources, but so far any crucial information has either not been released or the sources are withholding them for now on request from the NYPD," Garcia responded.

The former prosecutor nodded. "Alright, wheels up in thirty. Let's go."

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**Things will start to pick up in the next chapter, but tell me what you think so far!**


	3. I-2

_Queens, New York- Earlier that morning..._

**BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! **

The continuous blare of the radio's wake-up call radiated throughout the small apartment, the incessant beeping rising in crescendo to a point where even the dead would not be able to sleep through it. From the bed next to it, a hand rose out and blindly came down on the top of the offending machine. The room promptly fell silent.

The covers slowly and agonizingly rose up and fell forward as the bed's occupant, wearing nothing but a pair of white sports shorts, rose up and sat in the middle, showing no signs of bounding up to start the day. In fact, the scene reflected much more the awakening of a flu sufferer who had just been roused after spending the entire night tossing and turning.

That was not the case here, but anyone watching would be hard pressed to bet against it. If there was one thing you could not describe the vast majority of young men as- young _people_ in general, actually- it would be 'early risers'.

Scott Jackson sure as hell fit that profile to a tee; in the middle of the working week, when people got up at the crack of dawn to go out and earn a living in these uncertain financial times, he could barely drag himself up most mornings to walk on his own two feet. Even someone suffering from the world's worst hangover would have moved faster than him.

Not that he could blame a hangover for his reluctance to leave his bed. _Not today anyway._ There had been more than a few times that his love of a good time had a very nasty side effect the following morning. Nor could he blame being exhausted from a wild night of passion with a gorgeous woman. That hadn't happened in quite a while, and, as he looked over to the empty spot next to him, unlikely to happen again soon.

Looking over at the clock, he saw that it read 7:04 am, which left him approximately twenty-six minutes to get ready and wolf down a small breakfast before leaving for his job.

He sighed. "Damn it." Purely through sheer willpower, he forced himself to stand up and made his way over to the bathroom to urinate, shave and shower. As he lathered the shaving cream onto his face, his eyes finally cleared completely and he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.

Truth be told and much to his credit, Scott was one person who could get up in the morning feeling like hell and still look quite decent before washing up. At just under six feet, with a medium-length crop of blond hair, green eyes and a semi-tanned complexion, he supposed he could thank his good genes for his rare bit of fortune.

Well, one side of his genes anyway. His mother Anna was half-Native American, something she hadn't told Scott's father when she married him. His father James, despite being a hard worker, would have been much more suited to the Deep South in the late nineteenth century rather than the Minneapolis, Minnesota suburb where they lived- at least in terms of his views on racial equality and relationships. After finding out the news, blowing up in a rage and calling Anna obscene racist names, James had divorced her, packed up and left Minneapolis for an unknown destination, leaving a thirteen year old Scott with just one parent.

If Scott's old man had taught him one thing, it probably was how to piss people off, and he had accomplished that magnificently over the years, whether intentionally or otherwise. In fact, he had embraced one very specific rule after so many years of experience; never talk about politics or religion with anyone you want to remain on good terms with. If he had embraced that rule earlier, maybe the list of people he was still on speaking terms with would be longer than he could count on one hand.

Still, despite this, Scott could acknowledge he hadn't turned out too bad, especially considering he thankfully hadn't adopted his father's narrow-minded views.

He quickly shaved, showered, dressed and sat down to a quick breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, juice and toast. No matter how much he hated mornings, there was no way he was going to give his boss an excuse to deny him, temporarily or permanently, his paycheck, especially since he was the only person in the great city of New York who had given him a job.

_Heh. _He shook his head in amusement. _Oh, the irony._

It wasn't that Scott was stupid; on the contrary, he was quite an intelligent young man. After graduating high school and moving to New York, he had been accepted at New York State for Chemical Engineering and had earned high grades in his first couple of years. Unfortunately, right before the beginning of his third year, his mother had died in a car accident. While still recovering from the shock of the suddenness of that tragedy, he had learned that the little money she had had somehow disappeared. Scott had always suspected his father had something to do with that but of course couldn't prove anything. To make matters worse, the lack of money plus the fact that he hadn't been given a scholarship meant he could no longer afford to pay for tuition, forcing him to drop out of college and take a minimum wage job delivering packages by bike.

Yeah. It was true. What was a guy who had once been studying for a degree in chemical engineering working as now? _A goddamn bicycle courier._

Six years. Six years he had been working his ass off delivering packages all over the city, trying to save enough to go back to college. And between his living expenses, food, subway passes and whatever rare methods of entertainment he dared allow himself every now and again, he wasn't even _close_ to earning the required sum.

No choice now but to keep at it until he eventually got what he needed or somehow found another job that paid more. Maybe then he wouldn't be racing to wolf down a couple pieces of toast at 7:45 am, and instead he-

Wait a minute. Scott narrowed his eyes. Did that clock say seven _forty-five_?

"Shit!" Grabbing up his dishes, he all but threw them into the dishwasher before grabbing his subway pass and bolting out the front door.

He had approximately five minutes to get to the subway station a couple of blocks away from his apartment; otherwise, he'd have to wait an hour for another one. And by then, he'd be lucky if he had a job to go to.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Scott, my man! What's up?"<p>

Despite trying to catch his breath, Scott couldn't help but grin as he walked in the front door, greeted by the usual welcome.

"Hey, Earl. Not doing too bad." Earl Sykes was a fellow colleague, an African-American man of thirty-eight whose bald head and large, intimidating frame was offset by his genuinely friendly and warm personality.

"How's life treating you? You still all by yourself in that closet you call an apartment?" Earl asked.

"Life's been okay, yes I'm still there alone and it isn't really that bad," Scott responded all at once. "Come on, Earl, you know I'm still trying to recover from the last experience of sharing an apartment."

"Mmm. Suzy?"

"Suzy," Scott affirmed. His last girlfriend had been introduced to him by a 'friend' (depending on who you asked) from college, Chris Jordan. Chris had seen fit to introduce him to Suzy McMillan, a ditzy brunette with the personality of caffeine-charged rabbit and the brain of a rock. Scott certainly didn't see himself with her long-term, but the next few weeks had been some of the most fun, and exhausting, he'd ever experienced. Suzy had enjoyed acting out some of the more _vigorous _features of bunny rabbits when the sun went down, and Scott had been happy to oblige. Things seemed peachy- until one night, when the two of them were at the bar waiting for Chris and his date to arrive. When he did, Scott was surprised to see him alone- until Suzy jumped off her stool and they proceeded to engage in a tongue-in-mouth make-out session.

When a shocked Scott had asked them just what the hell was going on, Chris had given a massive shit-eating grin, then said, "Should have drunk your pineapple juice, Scottie-boy!"

Suzy had felt at liberty to add, "For me, it really _sweetened_ the deal!"

The aftermath of their departure had marked the first time Scott had gotten totally drunk since high school.

Earl had been confused when he told him the story. "You just let them walk away? Why didn't you do something? Teach that guy a lesson?" Scott had helpfully pointed out that while he would have loved nothing more than to knock out a few of Chris' pearly-white, shit-eating teeth, doing so would have been highly improbable- mainly based on the fact that he likely would have broken his hand on his traitorous friend's iron jaw. Chris, a former offensive back with the college football team, was a solid mass of nothing but muscle and tipped the scales at 200 lbs; Scott, despite being lean with good muscle tone, was lucky if he reached 160. It sure wasn't because of laziness on his part though because no matter how much he ate or how much time he spent in the gym, he had been the same size since the eleventh grade. His gym teacher had said he had the perfect physique for martial arts- if he could only find the time and money for it. In the meantime, he felt like a diesel engine who burned coal continuously but whose wheels just kept turning round and round without going anywhere. Sometimes it felt like he was a walking calorie burner.

But even if he had been as big as Chris, he still doubted whether he would have reacted. Suzy clearly wasn't the right person for him, and not worth getting into a fight over. There was no denying that she was an attractive young woman, but her personality left a lot to be desired; she was whiny and and vain and was seldom pleased unless things were going exactly her way. If Scott had to admit it, he was actually relieved to see her go.

"You can't be wasting your life away alone, man," Earl was saying. "You wait too long, you find yourself lonely and envious of everyone around you."

"Earl, come on, I'm twenty-six," Scott protested. "I'm not _that_ old. I've still got plenty of time ahead of me."

"That's what I thought when I was your age. And look at me now."

"Well Earl, you've never been pretty, but I really can't say I've noticed a huge difference." This bit of dialogue came from Celeste Dufraine, who was passing by. Celeste was a pretty girl of twenty-one with shoulder-length black hair, blue eyes and a complexion that made make-up seem like window dressing on her. A political science major at NYS, she worked part time to help pay for tuition. Apart from Earl, she was just about Scott's closest friend in the world; Scott had a slight feeling she wouldn't mind if they were something more, but their busy schedules made that practically impossible.

Earl laughed out loud at that. "Taken from you, girl, I'd say that's a compliment."

Celeste flashed a smile at him before turning to Scott. "You'd better report in. You're twenty minutes late and you know how the boss gets when that happens."

Scott groaned. "Great." Saying goodbye to his co-workers, he went to the back to log in, praying to God that his late arrival hadn't been noticed by the manager.

"_JACKSON_!"

On second thought, God was often busy.

"You mind explaining just why you're twenty minutes late for your shift?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dickie. It won't happen again, I promise."

"You better hope not." George Dickie, manager of Empire Deliveries, was a short, squat man who always wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a brown tie and glasses with lenses thick enough to stop bullets. He stood with his hands at his hips, staring intently at the young man. "You'll have to work overtime tonight if you want to earn your paycheck. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Check your routes after you log in. I expect it all done by closing time tonight." With that, he turned and left without waiting for a response.

Scott suppressed a groan as he logged in. He had come to two conclusions since starting work here: 1) That Mr. Dickie was a first-rate asshole; and 2) If he wanted to have any hope of earning enough money for tuition, he'd have to eat shit and not get fired for telling his boss what he thought of him. He had occasionally entertained the thought of not coming in at all just for the hell of it, but had always thought better of it. Mr. Dickie, despite his less-than-threatening appearance, had a temper like a rabid dog; some days it was enough to make a Navy SEAL cry for his mother. Better not tempt it.

As he headed out back to the loading dock to collect his packages, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if, for just one day, things would happen outside of his repetitive schedule. Something that would actually end up benefiting him for once. If there was ever a person who was in dire need of a break and some excitement that worked in his favour, it was him.

Scott huffed. _Sure. Who am I kidding? I'm a freaking bicycle courier; what the hell could possibly happen?_

He was first aware of the bright flash in front of him. He was then aware of the ground shaking. He became aware of being flung backwards off his feet. He was briefly aware of striking his head against something hard.

And then... darkness.

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**On another note, I'm grateful for the positive response towards what seems to be a rare Prentiss/OMC story. Considering there are a number of Prentiss/Hotch and Prentiss/Reid shippers out there, I'm glad to see this relatively rare idea seems to be appreciated! :)**

**Also, if anyone has any questions at any point, feel free to ask me and I'll be happy to answer them!**


	4. I-3

"_Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love."- Martin Luther King Jr._

Emily leaned back in her plane seat and closed her eyes. Her cup of morning coffee had done little to calm the pounding behind her eyes which had recently re-flared back up. She wished she had taken some Tylenol with her for this trip and silently cursed the pilot for his turbulent takeoff. Forcing her jaw muscles to relax somewhat, she let out a sigh.

"You okay?"

She looked up to see JJ staring at her concerned. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The blonde agent looked unconvinced. "Could have fooled me."

"It's nothing. Just a slight headache," Emily insisted. "I'll be a hundred percent by the time we're there. It's already getting better."

JJ still didn't look reassured, but fortunately for Emily was interrupted from any further questioning by the arrival of the rest of the team, who'd been conferring near the front. Morgan and Reid sat beside Emily and JJ respectively, while Hotch and Rossi sat near the outside. On the table, the computer was already linked to Garcia's lab, and its regular occupant was staring at the rest of the team eagerly.

"NYPD's expecting us on arrival," Hotch said. "They'll want a profile as quickly as possible."

"So why not just profile this as we would any other extremist individual or group?" Emily asked.

"_Well, see that's the problem,_" Garcia interjected. "_There is no definitive pattern for these kinds of groups. They're just like cookies, coming in all shapes and sizes._"

"Our UnSub's target list has already diversified," Morgan said. "They've gone from targeting houses of worship and abortion clinics to bloggers more willing to share their ideas. Something must have happened to change their MO."

"Or they're trying to cover their tracks by choosing occasional random targets," Rossi pointed out.

"There was no way for them to tell exactly who their bombs would kill when they were delivered by mail," JJ argued. "There was no specific selection. Ryan Howard's death breaks that pattern; the bomb was planted on his vehicle."

"Which shows escalation," Hotch reaffirmed. "Either they're getting more brazen or there was a specific purpose behind his killing."

"Is there any way of saying definitively whether this really is more than one person?" Emily asked.

"Does it make our job any more dangerous?" Rossi asked rhetorically.

"It's often difficult to tell how far their network goes," Reid answered. "Typically extremists often exaggerate the size of their following. Anders Behring Breivik, who perpetuated the July 2011 attacks in Norway claimed after his arrest that he was part of a group called the Knights Templar which contained between fifteen and eighty members in Western Europe alone, as well as having links to militant anti-Islamic groups in Britain such as the English Defence League."

"But no links were ever proven," Morgan declared exactly.

"Exactly. In fact his manifesto was highly plagiarized from other sources. He paid tribute to a wide range of current and historical figures ranging from far-right politicians in Europe to Winston Churchill to John Stuart Mill."

"Not to mention other domestic terrorists here in the US," Rossi declared.

"So are we looking for another Timothy McVeigh?" Emily asked.

"McVeigh characterized his opposition to what he saw as a tyrannical government in one massive strike on a single target," JJ pointed out. "So far, the scale of these attacks have been fairly low key."

"Unless they're building up to their version of Oklahoma City," Hotch said.

At that moment, his cell phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it.

"UnSubs don't create something like Oklahoma on a whim; they typically plan them long in advance to make sure they're executed properly," Rossi pointed out.

Morgan agreed. "Which means there's got to be a trail somewhere."

"Garcia, run checks on anyone in the greater New York area who purchased notable numbers of supplies in the last few months," Rossi said. "Fertilizer, timers, anything that could be used to put together a bomb."

"Also, cross-check those results with anyone with a background in explosives," Reid added. "The latest attack demonstrates that at least one of the UnSubs knows enough about them to place them onto vehicles. Focus on law enforcement officers, military personnel, anyone who knows their way around the construction of bombs."

Garcia nodded. "_Working like the wind. I'll let you know when I find something_." She logged off.

Hotch returned to the group, his face serious. "That was NYPD. There's been another bombing."

* * *

><p>The team arrived three quarters of an hour later to the chaotic scene of Empire Deliveries. Police and emergency personnel ran around inside and out. A good deal of smoke and debris hung in the air like a kind of irritating fog.<p>

A tall man with a dark suit, light brown hair and a sturdy build greeted them. "Detective Jeremy Brighton, NYPD," he said, holding out his hand. He spoke with just the faintest hint of a Midwestern accent.

Hotch shook it. "Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner." He indicated to the rest of his team. "Supervisory Special Agents Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau and Dr. Spencer Reid."

"Good thing you were already on the way," the detective remarked. "These scenes aren't always so easy to process after a couple hours. Plus, you got the vultures over there trying to pick every piece apart before we do." He indicated to the police line behind them where an army of reporters were gathered, snapping pictures and shouting questions.

"We'll be issuing a media statement as soon as we know exactly what we're dealing with," Hotch replied.

Brighton shook his head. "Not sure people will want to wait around for that. You start talking about bombs and attacks here in New York, it gets people really nervous. They want answers and quite frankly I can't blame 'em. So do we."

"What do we know so far?"

The detective indicated the group to follow him inside the building. "According to witnesses, the explosion happened out in the back area. That's where packages are stored before they're delivered."

"So the bomb was in one of them," Morgan surmised.

"That's our best bet right now. With all the other strikes in different places around the city, we're not entirely sure this place wasn't the target. Then again it could just be a matter of wrong place, wrong time."

Emily put her hand over her mouth to stifle a cough. "Are we sure it wasn't a dirty bomb that went off in here?" She croaked out as her throat protested the environment.

"We ran tests just like we did at the other scenes." Brighton stopped and shook his head. "No chemical, biological or radioactive material present." He indicated around them. "All this is dust and debris is from outside. If you're looking to blame someone for it, you might be able to nail the maintenance staff, but not our bomber."

"Assuming Empire wasn't the target, why'd the bomb go off here?" Reid questioned. "Was there any delay in when the package was supposed to be delivered?"

"Hard to say when you don't know exactly which one it was or where it was going. But according to the manager, one of the couriers that was responsible for delivering today was late." Brighton shrugged. "Could be the reason why it went off here."

"Who was the courier?" Hotch asked.

The detective consulted his notebook. "Uh... a Scott Jackson. Manager said he was twenty minutes behind schedule on arrival and apparently he was just going back to collect his packages when the explosion happened."

"Where is he now?"

Brighton pointed to the entrance. "Getting checked out by the paramedics right over there. EMTs said he seemed coherent enough, but they want to make sure."

Hotch nodded. "Alright, Prentiss and Reid, go interview the courier. JJ and Morgan, take the manager. Rossi and I will check out back."

With those words, the team split up to their individual tasks.

As Reid and Emily walked outside towards the ambulance, they were immediately overwhelmed by the barrage of questions from the nearby media.

"Is there any indication of why this happened?"

"Was Empire Deliveries the target?"

"Do you believe this was an al-Qaeda attack?"

"Have the FBI been working this case for a while?"

"Come on, can I get a picture here? Please!"

Emily shook her head in disbelief. "God," she murmured. "What is it about tragedy and devastation that people seem to find so fascinating?"

"It's been a part of human nature ever since ancient Greece when people gathered to watch gladiators fighting wild animals and other warriors in coliseums," Reid explained. "The thrill of the fight and the danger with it seem to have been made a permanent part of the human psyche."

"But why _this_?" Emily questioned, gesturing to the damaged building. "What do people see thrilling and interesting in something like this? This is an attack against innocent people. Sometimes it seems like people are more interested in glamourizing the violence than on honouring the victims and making sure they get justice."

"Honour and justice is not something you can sell," Reid pointed out. "Violence and hysteria are."

Emily shook her head disgustedly. "Money. Seems like that's all people are interested in today."

"We're not."

"Yeah. And how many people do we _really_ get justice for at the end of the day with the victims' families and privacy torn apart by all the coverage?"

"We're doing what's right," Reid pointed out. "And we're giving it our best every single day. How many people can really say that?"

It was a valid point and Emily had no further comment on that subject. They reached the back of the ambulance where an EMT was crouched over the young man sitting in the back of the vehicle. Whatever inch of his clothes that was not covered in a thick layer of dust was ripped and torn. The EMT was shining a light into his eyes, and the man seemed to be having trouble focusing. "I keep telling you, I'm fine," the man grumbled.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're going to have to take you to the hospital. We need to make sure you didn't suffer a concussion or any other kind of trauma."

"Trauma? All I did was knock my head against a box! I think I'd know if I had a concussion."

"Actually, statistically speaking," Reid cut in, "eighty-eight percent of people who suffer concussions go undiagnosed."

The man stared at him with wide, slightly glassy eyes. "Really? Gee, why didn't I know that?"

"Well, technically-"

"Technically, he's a walking encyclopedia on everything," Emily cut in. "Are you Scott Jackson?"

"Yeah," he said. "Or at least the outer part of him since they think I'm not all here right now."

"Special Agent Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid. We're from the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Something tells me you're not here to see if I really do have a concussion."

Emily shook her head. "We understand you were supposed to make some deliveries this morning and were right there when the explosion happened."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the EMT said, getting up, "but if you want to ask him any questions, you'll have to wait until the hospital gives him the all-clear."

"I don't need to go to any hospit-"

"Yeah, you do." The EMT cut him off. "Unless you want to pass out while you're driving and end up killing yourself."

"I don't have a car, so that's not a possibility," the courier grumbled. "All I have is a bike, and unless some idiot isn't watching where he's going, I may just be willing to take that risk."

"Uh, you might want to reassess that decision," Reid interjected. "Any kind of accident can lead to another, more severe concussion, increasing the likelihood of permanent brain damage or complications such as second-impact syndrome."

Scott blinked. "And you just knew that off the top of your head, doctor?"

"Oh, I'm not a medical doctor. I have three doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering, plus two B.A.'s in Psychology and Sociology, an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187," Reid rattled off.

There were few moments in Scott Jackson's life where he was legitimately caught off guard and shocked into silence. He stared at Reid for a moment before shifting his gaze to Prentiss. "He's not kidding, is he?"

"Scary, isn't it?" She shrugged. "Told you he was a walking encyclopedia."

"Oh, by the way," Reid said, "I'm also thirty years old and am working on a B.A in Philosophy in addition to full time field work."

Scott turned back to Emily. "Is he for real?"

She smirked. "You get used to it after a while."

"Excuse me," the EMT seized the opportunity to break in. "We need to get you to the hospital, sir." He turned to the two FBI agents. "If you really need to question him, one of you can come along in the ambulance. You can talk to him once he's been checked out, but only _after_ he's been given a clan bill of health."

At the mention of only one agent riding with him, Scott immediately cast such a worried look at Reid that Emily instantly felt sympathy for both of them; for Reid, who was likely oblivious to the witness' concern, and for Scott, who clearly was not relishing the fact of being trapped in a confined space with the genius. She decided to spare both them a lot of awkwardness. "I'll go with him," she said to the EMT. "Reid, you can stay here and help with the scene reconstruction. With your skills, you'll probably have the whole thing figured out by the time I get back."

Scott immediately looked a lot more relieved and, thankfully, Reid seemed eager and more at ease to accomplish this task. As Scott and the EMT climbed into the back- the latter moving up to the driver's seat- Emily climbed in with them and sat across from the young man.

Scott looked up at Emily, a curious expression on his face. "Did you mean it when you said you get used to it after a while?"

"To Reid?" At his nod, she shook her. "Never completely. We've been colleagues for six years and I still haven't gotten fully used to him. I doubt anyone will. Still, he's a good agent and a great friend."

"I'm guessing he's the brain on your team. Cause if he's not, I'm almost afraid of what the real one is capable of."

Emily smirked. "Never met anyone smarter than him. He's one of a kind."

"Good. I'd hate to think of the arguments if two of them were in a room."

Emily laughed. "I don't think the world could handle that much cerebral power."

Scott smiled. "So if he's the brain, what does that make you, Agent Prentiss? No, wait, don't tell me. Let me guess- the ultra-deadly well-travelled femme fatale whom the bad guys never see coming it's too late."

Emily suppressed a smirk even as she shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint. I'm just a regular federal agent."

"What's the definition of 'regular'?" Scott asked. "I doubt anyone can really be considered 'regular'- especially not an FBI agent."

"Really?" Emily leaned back and observed the young man carefully. "Does that include you?"

He shrugged. "Probably does."

"So how do you define yourself, Mr. Jackson?"

He took a deep breath. "A guy trying to reach his ultimate potential through a necessary evil."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"A job I thought was dull and uninteresting. Heh, look how that turned out." As the ambulance started up, he spread his arms. "I'm not good with descriptions, but I'll indulge you. You want to know how I see myself? Here it is: Scott Jackson, former college student turned bicycle courier, typical young American man trying to scrape by in these tough economic times."

"And," Emily added, "a witness to a federal crime."

**A/N: So how's it going so far? Please review and give me feedback! Tell me what you like/didn't like. Constructive criticism is always appreciated!**


	5. I-4

"You know, if Empire truly was the target, the UnSub sure picked a lousy time time to set off his bomb," Rossi observed, kneeling over the ruined remains of the south corner of the loading dock. "Pretty much all that was really destroyed was the morning mail."

"Unless they believed they were truly disrupting a vital city service," Hotch replied as he stood next to him.

"You really believe that, Aaron?"

"Do you?"

Rossi frowned and shook his head. "No. You wanna disrupt postal services, you go after the major distributors. The first bomb blew up inside a delivery van, meaning it was mailed to one of the main delivery providers." He stood up. "You don't send it to a small time courier company if you want to incite mass hysteria."

"Which is what bombers typically look for," Hotch surmised. "The place was incidental; our UnSub didn't expect the delay in delivery."

"At least not another one. Problem is we have no idea what the true target was. The blast pretty much obliterated any piece of evidence which may have told us."

"Maybe we can still get around that. There has to be a log somewhere; you can't just drop a package off without signing for it."

"Yeah well, with these smaller businesses, people are always looking to cut corners to give themselves an edge," Rossi pointed out. "The economy sure hasn't helped much either."

"So we blame the Bush administration for these bombings, Dave?" Hotch questioned.

The older man sighed. "Just thinking out loud."

"We're going to need more than that if we want to catch a break." The two men walked over to where Detective Brighton was speaking to a young woman.

"Agents, this is Celeste Dufraine, she was near the front entrance when the explosion happened," Brighton offered. "Miss Dufraine, these men are with the FBI."

The girl turned towards them; her entire body from head to toe seemed to have been painted one big shade of dust-coloured grey. "FBI?" She questioned.

"Special Agents Rossi and Hotchner with the Behavioural Analysis Unit." The two men showed their badges.

"Why would the FBI be interested in an explosion in a deliveries company?"

"We believe this was the latest in a series of mail bombings around New York," Hotch explained.

Celeste's eyes grew wider. "Really? I mean, sure I heard something about them on the news, but..." She looked back and forth between the three men. "Are you sure this is the same thing?"

"It seems that way for now, but we need to make sure. Are you up to answering some questions?" Rossi asked gently.

"Huh? Oh, of course!" She seemed to snap her apparent shell-shock and made an attempt to dust off her clothes.

"Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?" Hotch asked.

She shook her head. "No, I'm okay. Really. It's just this damn plaster dust." She made a major effort to scrub her shirt of the offending material, which was largely unsuccessful, and groaned. "Great, I just had these clothes dry-cleaned _yesterday_. I just hope my hot water tank is full; I'm gonna need at least a half hour long shower to get all this crap off."

"We'll be as quick as we can," Rossi said assuringly.

She sighed and waved an airy hand at them. "Don't worry. My boss is a real hard-ass. He wouldn't let me go home early even if the world came to an end, let alone for a little explosion in the back. "

"You work here at Empire?"

"Part time, yeah. I study political science at New York State. It helps pay for tuition; this and whatever other work I can find."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Hotch asked.

Celeste shrugged. "Not much to tell. I got here at eight just like I always do, filed a few papers, checked my routes for that day, spoke to a few other couriers up front. About quarter to nine, there's this huge blast out back in the loading dock that shakes the entire building, knocks me off my feet and fills the air up with all this crap." As if to make her point, she wiped the area around her eyes and flicked the dust off. "Maybe I shouldn't be complaining though. My days are usually a lot duller than this."

"The loading dock is where all the packages are stored until delivery?" Rossi asked.

"That's right."

"How do they arrive out back?"

"Depends. Sometime people bring them here themselves, sometimes they're mailed. And occasionally companies pay for them to be privately sent here to be dispatched. I don't know why they'd do that when they can afford to just mail them directly." She shrugged again. "But what do I know? I'm just a college student struggling to pay her way through her senior year."

"But all packages are signed for by someone?"

"Oh, yeah. It's city law, even for smaller delivery companies like us."

Rossi and Hotch exchanged glances, the same idea on both their minds. Even if the UnSub hadn't delivered the parcel bomb personally, it had to have been signed for by _someone_. That person may or may not have been aware of the package's contents, but regardless they could provide a trail to follow- perhaps even to the UnSub themselves.

"Do you... think that Empire was the real target?" Celeste asked nervously. "'Cause if that's the case, I'm gonna be looking for another job."

"We're not sure at this point." This time it was Brighton who answered. "It's possible but I can't say with certainty."

Celeste stared incredulously. "But the bomb blew up here, didn't it?"

"Yes, but we have no idea where its final destination was," Hotch answered. "The explosion destroyed a lot of the physical evidence, including the original address on the parcel."

"We understand that there was some type of delay this morning with one of the couriers; a Scott Jackson," Rossi said. "Do you know anything about that?"

Celeste's eyes fluttered uncomfortably downwards. "Um... I shouldn't really say anything. He's in enough trouble with the manager as it is."

"Look, we need to know everything you do. It could be very important," Hotch said gently but firmly.

"We're trying to catch whoever did this, not make an employee assessment," Rossi added. "As long as your colleague's not done anything wrong, there's no reason to tell your boss anything."

Celeste slowly met the agents' eyes, moving back and forth between them. "Look," she said with a sigh. "Scott is a really great guy but he's not had an easy life. He has no close family and instead of graduating from college like he wanted to, he had to drop out and and take a job here because he couldn't pay tuition. That was six years ago and he's been struggling to make it ever since."

"That doesn't sound like a big issue," Hotch remarked.

"Yeah well, you're not the manager here," Celeste declared sourly. "Mr. Dickie's not the type of boss you can offer any type of excuse to and hope he'll understand. He doesn't care if you live in a crappy apartment on the other side of town or that the long routes he assigns you give you barely enough time to go home and get a few hours sleep. All he cares about is his orderly schedule and showing up the other delivery companies. Scott almost never complains about anything, even when he's fully justified in doing so. He's taken a lot of crap for much of his life; in his mind, if he has to be a little late and pay for it later for just a little bit more sleep in the morning, he'll do it."

Detective Brighton said, "You seem to know him pretty well."

Celeste fixed him with a look. "Scott is one of my best friends, detective. He was the first one to make me feel welcome when I started here and he's never asked for anything in return. He once said I'm one of the only people he's met that he hasn't managed to somehow drive away. He can be outspoken and opinionated, yes, but there's no one I'd trust more with anything."

She looked at the three men. "Believe me; there's no better man than him."

* * *

><p>"Incompetent!" George Dickie shouted. "Absolutely incompetent! Why I keep him around is beyond me!"<p>

Morgan and JJ exchanged glances. Though neither of them were sure of exactly where it happened, somehow along the line, their questioning of the manager into the events of just an hour ago had turned into a rant on the bespectacled man's side over the (apparently many) negative aspects of the courier named Scott Jackson.

"Sir, can we please get back to the bombing?" JJ finally broke in.

"What about it?" The squat man demanded, squinting through his Coke-bottle glasses. "I told you what happened. I heard a massive explosion followed by a mass of debris sweeping through the building. There's nothing else to it."

"How many packages did you receive this morning?" Morgan asked.

"Twenty-eight. All before 7:00. Now they're gone! All of them! You have any idea what this is going to do to Empire? Now every other mid-level company that couldn't hold a candle to us is going to take over our deliveries for who knows how long!"

"Was there anyone bringing in a package that stood out in particular? Anything about them that may have caught your eye?"

"I wouldn't know." Dickie replied curtly.

JJ and Morgan both blinked. "How could you not know?" The former asked. "I thought you said you took your work very seriously."

"What? Of course I do!" The manager glared at her. "I was in my office attending to some important business; much more important than processing incoming deliveries. That's supposed to be the job of my employees, though some are not _nearly_ as competent as I expect them to be," he spat.

"Scott Jackson."

"Who else? The kid's been nothing but a litany of excuses ever since he started here six years ago. I'm running a tight ship here; with these economic times, you have to have an edge over all your competitors. How the hell am I supposed to do that with a guy who arrives twenty minutes late for his shift?"

"Has this happened frequently?" Morgan asked.

"It doesn't have to happen frequently!" Dickie snapped. "It only has to happen once! For all I know, the package that blew up could have been his to deliver. Because he was late, a whole lot of other people aren't getting their deliveries on time!"

"So it would have been better for the bomb to have gone off while the courier was delivering it?" JJ demanded, her voice taking on a harder tone.

"Hey, I never said that!"

"But you're implying it," Morgan pressed.

Dickie sighed. "Look, I have to look at things from a business perspective. Something like this happens, no matter the circumstances, it's bad for the company. If something bad happens for the company, it's bad for me. This is going to cause Empire a lot of setbacks and give me more problems than I already have. Nobody got hurt and I'm glad for that. That doesn't change the fact that Scott Jackson is a lazy kid who's lucky to still have his job. It's the facts and they're not going to change regardless if he's alive or not. Now, are we done here?"

"For now," Morgan replied coolly.

As the manager walked outside, JJ remarked, "Well, I guess he's not going to be named Employer of the Month any time soon."

"People like that only see the world in one colour. And that's green." Morgan shook his head in disgust. "Even when something like this happens, it's still all that matters to them."

"So assuming the bomb was intended to be delivered somewhere this morning, how do we determine where exactly it was headed?"

"At this point, your guess is as good as mine."

"Excuse me." Both agents turned to see a large set African American man wearing an Empire uniform walk up to them. "Both of you are from the FBI?"

"That's right," Morgan said. "There something you'd like to tell us, Mr...?"

"Sykes. Earl Sykes. I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear you talking to the manager." Earl scowled. "No offence intended, but the guy can be a real arrogant hard-ass. Figure if he decided he didn't need anyone else, he'd fire everyone and appoint himself king of Empire. No love for his employees, especially the ones who work the hardest around here."

"You were in the building when the bomb went off?" JJ asked.

"Nah, I was out front trying to stop some cab driver from parking in front of our door. Didn't know anything was wrong until the whole building shook, but I ran in to see what was happening and make sure everyone was alright. Lucky I could find any of them at all with that dust and stuff in the air. I managed to haul a few out front before the cops arrived, which is more than I can say for the manager."

"We're starting to get a sense that he's not overly liked here," Morgan surmised.

"He's never given anyone a reason to like him and quite frankly, I think he prefers it that way," Earl responded. "Man never became anything special in the world so he created his own to play king in it- with all Empire's employees as his subjects."

"Let me guess- Scott Jackson wasn't among his favourites," JJ said, guiding the conversation to the recurring topic.

"No, ma'am. Quite the opposite in fact. To hear him talk some days, you'd think the world was about to come to an end because of that kid."

"And you don't think that was the case?" Morgan pressed.

"Look, I've been here longer than I'd ever want to admit," Earl stated, crossing his arms. "Mostly because of bad decisions on my part. Scott came in here six years ago as a guy who'd had his entire life pulled out from under him; father left when he was a kid, mother had just died and he couldn't afford to continue his studies. But he has a real drive to succeed no matter what you put in front of him. He works his ass off every single day doing his job."

"Really?" JJ questioned. "Because the way his manager tells it, he's not exactly a model employee."

"Maybe not in his world where everything circles around him. If he'd actually look at his employees as people rather than machines, he'd see he's got a hell of a good man working for him. I've seen plenty of people come and go for years. Scott's intelligent, agents; if he got his college degree, he'd go a hell of a lot further than he is now. With all due respect to Mr. Dickie, he doesn't know the kid like I do."

"Because you know him as a person?" Morgan asked.

Earl looked him in the eye. "Because I know him as a friend."

The conversation turned back to the bombing, but despite the agents' questions, Earl wasn't able to provide much more information; Scott Jackson had been assigned to deliver a number of packages held in the loading dock, but whether the bomb had been in one of them, he had no idea- another dead end on that trail.

The two walked back outside where they quickly met up with Hotch and Rossi. "Well?" The former prosecutor asked. "Anything?"

Morgan shook his head. "All anyone seems to remember for sure is a massive explosion in the loading dock. No suspicious individuals, no hurried last minute deliveries, nothing."

"The manager says there were twenty-eight packages awaiting delivery this morning," JJ added. "We can check them against the official log, but unless we know which one it was in, it won't tell us where exactly the bomb was destined. Considering his attitude, I'd almost say he'd have been happier if it blew up while on route instead of here."

Rossi snorted. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Anything else?" Hotch asked.

"Apart from the fact that the courier who nearly got blown to hell and back is on his shit list, not really," Morgan responded. "Strange though; his boss seems to think he's the prime candidate for termination, but at least one of his colleagues that we talked to seems to think otherwise."

"We got that as well," Hotch said, a frown creasing his face. "I'm not sure how, if at all, it relates to the attack, but we'll keep searching as see what we find."

It was just then that Reid sauntered up to the group. "Do you guys have any idea just how unlikely it is that anyone caught in the blast radius of that bomb would have escaped with no major injuries? I'm not even sure they've invented that particular statistic yet!" His entire face puckered up, almost in dismay of having finally found a piece of information that he didn't already know.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, first at this apparent earth-shattering revelation, then at the realization that that genius had arrived alone. "Where's Prentiss?"

"Hmm?" Reid snapped out of his thoughts. "Oh, she accompanied the bicycle courier to the hospital. They wanted to check him out before he answered any questions and she volunteered to go with him."

"Leaving you behind?" Morgan pressed.

"Apparently there was only room for one of us. She said she'd go and catch up with us later."

Though no one said it out loud, at least three of the other agents were suppressing grins at the same thought; no doubt Emily had volunteered to go to save the courier Scott Jackson from suffering death via brain overload before he even reached the hospital, courtesy of Spencer Reid and his inhuman knowledge on statistics.

It was Hotch, stoic as ever, who broke the silence. "You sure that was wise?" He couldn't help but feel a little cautious with his team members' lives, and not just because of Emily's recent 'death'; bombs and ambulances were not a healthy mix when it came to the BAU. He had no desire to have a repeat of that any time soon.

"Aw, don't worry, Aaron," Rossi interjected. "Prentiss is a big girl; if anyone can handle themselves, she can. It's a simple trip to the hospital followed by a simple interrogation. How hard can that be?"

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**I was going to write more in this chapter, but I decided to save the hospital scene with Emily and Scott for a chapter of its own- much better that way!**

**So Paget Brewster's leaving AGAIN after this season? PERMANENTLY? Son of a- that caught me off guard. I may decide to work that into my story somehow, which will no doubt be different that how they do it on the show. I've got a few idea on how to do that. Don't worry- regardless of how long it takes, I'm sticking with this until it's finished!**

**BTW- anyone see JJ's fighting skills last week? Damn, she can kick ass! I may have to add that in as well to this story!**

**Anyway, drop a review and tell me what you think!**


	6. I-5

"Gah! Jeez, could you have pressed down any harder?"

"Mr Jackson, I'm sorry, but we need to make sure there was no cranial damage."

"Well if I don't have it now, I will by the time you're finished jabbing your finger into my head!"

Emily discretely rolled her eyes at the scene in front of her. She had convinced the ER attendant to allow her to be present during Scott Jackson's examination and was now starting to regret doing so. The cool, laid back man in the ambulance on the ride to the hospital had undergone a complete change since the examination began. She privately thought to herself that what she was watching more likely resembled a scene on a middle school yard than a couple of adults in a professional setting.

_Typical man_, she found herself thinking.

"Just a few more checks, sir," the attendant was saying.

Scott grumbled under his breath but reluctantly allowed the man to complete his work. His jaw clenched every time a particular spot on the back of his head was touched but otherwise didn't say anything. The light being shined in his eyes a moment later certainly didn't improve his attitude, or the pain in his head, but he kept his silent displeasure to himself.

"Well, I must say you're a very lucky man, Mr. Jackson."

Scott chuckled humorlessly. "If this is your idea of luck, I'd hate to see what you'd consider a disaster."

"Frankly, with this type of blow, I'd expect you to have a concussion or at least need stitches." The attendant shook his head. "How you managed to escape them is beyond me."

"Maybe it's my sheer stubbornness," Scott shrugged. "It's one of my best attributes."

Emily narrowed her eyes. "Being hardheaded is an attribute?" She questioned.

He looked at her. "Protects my genius brain while preserving my good looks," he grinned.

"Uh huh," she responded, crossing her arms. "As long as you can remember what happened, that's good enough for me."

The attendant stood up. "Alright, Mr. Jackson, I have absolutely no idea how you managed it, but you seem to have pretty much a clean bill of health."

"Great! That means I don't have to stay?"

The attendant nodded. "Apart from the swelling and bruising in the immediate area, you should be fine. I'd recommend taking it easy for at least a couple of days. No strenuous exercise or anything like that. If you feel dizzy or have the feeling like you're going to pass out, seek help immediately."

"Does that include right after a drink or two?" Scott questioned somewhat dismissively.

"Mr. Jackson..." the attendant started sternly.

"Alright, alright, I got it." Scott held up a hand. "I get called 'Mr. Jackson' one more time, I'll feel like I'm going to have to buy an actual suit and tie. _There's_ something I never thought would be possible."

The attendant merely shook his head and went to leave the room. As he passed by Emily, he declared, "He's all yours."

Emily raised her eyes and pursed her lips. "Great," she murmured. She looked back to the bed where Scott was sitting, tilting his head from side to side. "You know, for someone who was insisting he was totally fine just an hour ago, you sure seemed to be in quite a bit of pain."

"I imagine you would be too if a bomb blew up right in front of you and the place where you hit your head was constantly being jabbed and prodded." Scott winced as he rubbed the spot in question. "But then again, I'm just a bicycle courier. This whole 'nearly dying' stuff is pretty new to me."

Emily bit back a retort about the casualness with which he described 'nearly dying'. "What exactly happened leading up to the explosion?"

He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I got to work, logged in and went out back to collect my deliveries. Next thing I know, there's this bright flash in front of me, the ground's shaking, I go flying back and wake up to a bunch of EMTs leaning over me and a headache that makes my worst hangover seem like a walk in the park."

"Your manager said you were twenty minutes late on your arrival."

He chuckled. "Of course he did."

"Is it true?" She pressed.

"Yes. Despite my best attempts to avoid the manager's wrath, the subway was delayed; some kind of electrical failure. Not that Di- Mr. Dickie would accept that reason. I doubt he would accept death as a legitimate reason."

"Can you think of any reason why Empire would be targeted?"

Scott gave a small smile. "You mean apart from getting rid of its charming manager?"

"This is a serious matter, Mr. Jackson," Emily replied testily. "We don't have time for jokes."

"Who said I was joking?" At Emily's cold look, Scott sighed. "Unless some rival delivery company is extremely desperate to knock off the competition, I doubt it very much."

"There's no other possible reason?"

"Not unless it's buried somewhere in Empire's deep, dark past. Why are you asking me?"

"You've worked there for six years."

"Which is small time compared to some other people."

"They weren't the ones caught in the explosion."

Scott nodded. "Good point," he conceded.

"So?" Emily pressed.

"I doubt someone would go through all this trouble if they were unhappy with their service. Beyond that I have no idea why this would happen to us." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless... you know something I don't."

"We suspect this incident is related to a series of bombings around the New York area in the past couple of weeks."

Scott's eyebrows shot up to the hairline. "Really?"

Emily looked at him skeptically. "You're telling me this is the first you're hearing about it?"

"I barely have time in the day to eat and sleep, Agent Prentiss. I haven't really caught up on the news in... what's it been? A week or so? What do you mean bombings? Bombings of other delivery companies?"

"No. All the other targets seem to have been government-supported."

"But Empire isn't government-supported," Scott replied. "It's a private business."

"We believe the most likely scenario is that the bomb was inside one of the packages to be delivered, but was delayed and exploded early," Emily explained.

"Delayed..." Scott murmured. He looked up at the FBI agent. "If the bomb in one of the packages was delayed... then does that mean that- that was supposed to be one of _my_ deliveries? And that if I hadn't arrived late, it could have... gone off while I still had it?"

"It's possible, but we aren't sure of that yet," she replied. "I don't suppose you could tell us where all your deliveries were supposed to be today?"

Scott shook his head. "Didn't get a chance to check my list. And I doubt there's anything left of any of them now. If you need addresses, they'll be in Empire's system, but I haven't seen today's yet."

"You don't remember anything unusual about this morning? Something that seemed out of place, or someone?"

Scott gave a thin smile. "This is New York, Agent Prentiss. Is it possible to look out of place here?"

"I'm being serious, Mr. Jackson," Emily responded.

"So am I." Scott sat up straighter on the bed. "What you may call 'strange' in any other city is pretty much normal here in the Big Apple."

"You're not being very helpful," she said tersely, her frustration beginning to creep over into her professional nature.

"I apologize. My deep intellect is a little slow today. Probably has something to do with the rattling in my brain that's been there since the explosion."

"You know, other people wouldn't take what happened to them nearly so casually," Emily pointed out. Her jaw was beginning to ache from being clenched; the man was starting, whether he realized it or now, to get on her nerves. It was only now that she was realizing just how tense all her muscles had become.

Scott shrugged. "I'm not most people."

"It was your workplace, Mr. Jackson."

"It was the place where I was employed," he corrected. "Not out of choice, but out of necessity. I have no particular attachment to it other than the friends I've made there and the paycheck that helps me put food on the table. It's not my workplace. It belongs to Mr. George Dickie, Manager Extraordinaire."

"And the people who could have been hurt or killed had you not been late?" Emily wanted to press him. To keep him talking in case he unconsciously revealed some information he may not consider important. "You don't have any particular feeling towards them?"

"Hey, I did _not_ say that!"

"No, but you're not going out of your way to mention it."

"There's a difference between people's lives and a delivery company building."

"True enough, but you don't seem to show much feeling towards either." Emily knew that she was toeing the line of professionalism, that she shouldn't allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of this nature with a witness. But there was something about him that pushed her to engagement.

"This is New York," Scott said evenly. "In this city, people see so much that after a while they stop responding to it the way they should. 9/11 changed a lot of things. Do I think it's right? Is it the attitude I always try to take with me? Hell, no. But I'm just one guy. How can I change an entire society?"

"You could start with yourself," she declared.

Scott smirked. "You have an awful lot of concern for my views, Agent Prentiss."

Emily was momentarily caught off guard by the statement. "I'm... just trying to get an understanding of the mindset of people surrounded by events like these."

"If you want a more detailed resume, you could always talk to me between 5 and 7 pm," he said.

"When your head has cleared?" She questioned.

He gave an amused grin. "No, when a good deal of alcohol has made me temporarily forget that a bomb went off in my face this morning."

Her curiosity vanished and was once again replaced at a sense of irritation at the man. Was he really taking the situation as lightly as he seemed to? What was the cause of it? More importantly, why the hell was she taking the issue so seriously? She'd met dozens of people who had seemed less than affected by a traumatic event; why was she finding this particular one so unnerving?

Perhaps fortunately, she was saved from having to continue the exchange when her cellphone rang and she stepped out of the room to answer it. "Prentiss."

"_Not interrupting something, am I Emily?"_

Emily sighed. "No, Rossi, you're not interrupting anything." _What the hell would he possibly be interrupting?_ "What is it?"

"_When you're finished at the hospital, come down to the station. Garcia found something she wants us all to take a look at."_

"Got it. I'll be right there." She hung up and walked back into the room to find Scott moving to stand up from the bed. She raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're okay for leaving on your own?"

"Got a clean bill of health from the hospital itself," he grinned. "And as much as I appreciate your concern Agent Prentiss, I'm ready to get out of this open-door jailhouse." He placed both feet on the ground and promptly stumbled and wavered off balance. Emily quickly moved to support him until he could stand straight. "Whoa," he groaned. "As soon as the room stops spinning."

Clutching hold of his torso, Emily could feel the steady throb of his heart beneath his chest; after speeding slightly when she first grabbed hold of him, it was now steadying its rate. As his arm moved behind her to take hold of her shoulder, pulling her in closer to him, she felt the lean but firm structure of his body, an indication of his active lifestyle. In that moment, a tiny spark went off in her stomach. It was brief, barely lasting a second before it fizzled out, but it had not gone unnoticed. She noticed that her mouth had gone slightly drier than before, and rubbed her tongue over her lips to moisten them before releasing her hold on him- just hesitating for the briefest of split seconds before letting go.

Scott blinked and then let out a breath of air. "Man," he murmured. "Guess for once in my life, I'm actually going to have to follow doctor's orders and take it easy for a day."

"Do you need me to call a cab for you?" Emily asked. "Or drive you myself?"

Scott smirked. "Didn't know the FBI offered rides to all their witnesses. I should get blown up more often."

"This is _not_ a joking matter, Mr. Jackson!" Emily all but snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, I got as much." Scott held up a hand; the sound of her raised voice was bringing back his headache. "It's okay, Agent Prentiss. I wouldn't want to tie up the FBI's resources just because of a little pain in my skull. I'll call a cab myself."

"You're sure?" Emily pressed.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Alright, well, if you think of anything else that could be useful to us, give me a call." Emily handed him a business card. "You can reach me by this number, day or night."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Day or night, huh?" He grinned. "I might just hold you to that."

Emily rolled her eyes. _Why the hell did I give him another reason to aggravate me?_ "Thank you for your time, Mr. Jackson."

Despite his less than perfect analyzing ability at the moment, the fact was not lost on Scott that he had just been witness to one of the strongest female personalities in his entire life. Seriously- not even one other woman in his personal or professional life had had quite the impact that Agent Emily Prentiss did in the past few minutes. It was immediately clear to him that this was a strong woman who was not afraid to speak her mind when she wanted to- something Scott could greatly appreciate. She was also someone who was used to looking after herself; he had felt her physical strength when she had helped support him, as well as the lean, strong shape of her body. As she walked out of the room, his eyes automatically moved downwards and watched as her well-toned ass moved from side to side with every step she took.

He was slightly startled out of his observations when she called back to him, without looking back, "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to stare?"

For once in his life, Scott Jackson was short of a comeback or remark, and he could almost see the smirk on her face as she passed out of the room at having gotten the final word.

Scott let out a breath and shook his head.

_Typical_ _woman_.

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**


	7. I-6

When Emily arrived at the station she found the team already busy and deep of the stages of some kind of planning. In the main conference room, she walked up to the conference table which was surrounded by her colleagues, along with Detective Brighton and a few police officers.

Hotch noticed her first. "Any luck with the courier?"

Emily shook her head. "Not nearly as much as I would have hoped." She gave a brief recount of the interview, omitting only the comments Scott had made that made her feel like tearing out her own hair. "What's going on here?"

"Hold on just a second." Morgan dialled a number on his cellphone. "Garcia, you're on speaker."

"_Your all-knowing authority on everything technical and beyond awaits your request,"_ came the chipper response of the technical analyst.

"Bring Prentiss up to speed on what you found."

"_Right. Well, I ran the initial search on possible bomb components in the last month and you would not **believe **the amount of people who like to purchase things that can go 'boom'; it's actually really scary. Unfortunately, none of them have backgrounds in anything dealing with explosives, so, upon request by our lovable genius, I went further back and started searching for any kind of hate crime in the past few months in the New York area where the bomber or bombers may have gotten their feet wet."_

"What do you mean 'any kind of hate crime'?" Emily asked confused.

"To see where the UnSub might have gotten their start," Reid explained. "See, we assumed initially that the low-level bombing campaign was the beginning of their killing spree, but what if they started earlier with something a lot less noticeable?"

"Such as?"

"If we're dealing with a group, then that group could be run a single charismatic individual. Members of extremist groups tend to flock towards leaders who possess high levels of charisma and leadership, something they may lack themselves. Such an individual could recruit members who have similar viewpoints as them but who have committed low-level crimes in order to assert their authority and achieve their objectives."

"And this helps us how exactly?" Brighton questioned.

"If at least one of our UnSubs has committed crimes that fit the victims' profile, then it's gonna be one of violence," Rossi explained. "We're not dealing with dumb kids spray-painting slogans on buildings; at least not at this late stage. We're talking about personally assaulting or even killing people."

"So you think that they've escalated to bombing buildings now?"

"And for all we know, they may be escalating even further," JJ added.

"Alright, so where did the UnSub get his start?" Emily asked.

"_Well, in the city the size of New York, there are no shortages of violent crimes or ones that could fit their MO,"_ Garcia continued. _"BUT, I scoured every known case for which the UnSub might have been responsible. It took a while but at last I found the most likely candidate; Hector Juan Ramos, twenty-nine year old mechanic, married with one child, found castrated and beaten to death in an alley near his Albany workplace two weeks before the first bombing."_

"Were there any lead suspects?" Emily asked.

"_That's where it gets juicy. Wife's name is Alexis Georgia Ramos, née Kingston, twenty-seven, works as an accountant at New York Charted Accountants, currently on maternity leave. Definitely a looker but definitely not Hispanic."_

"And?" Hotch prompted.

"_Ms. Ramos clearly declares her father to be the most likely suspect."_

Rossi raised his brows. "Really?" He said skeptically.

"_Yes. Father's name is David Lee Kingston, age fifty-five, former border agent in New Mexico. Twice accused of physically assaulting suspected illegal immigrants, but no charges were ever filed. He retired in 2005, arrested two years later for second degree assault on an African-American man. Charges were dropped when the victim refused to testify. He moved to New York six months ago from Albuquerque."_

"Do we have an address?" Hotch asked.

"_Affirmative. NYPD checked out his residence after the wife made her accusation, but no one was home and there's been no sign of him since they've kept it under surveillance."_

"What about the wife?" Morgan asked.

"_She and her daughter have been in protective custody since the murder in Queens. Forwarding all information to you now."_

"Alright, thanks, Baby Girl." Morgan hung up the phone.

"So you think this guy Kingston's responsible for these bombings?" Brighton enquired.

"That's what we're going to find out," Hotch replied. "It may turn out to be nothing, but at this rate we're not going to turn down any leads."

"With all due respect Agent Hotchner, I'm not convinced," the detective argued, crossing his arms. "Distasteful as it may be, it's not against the law to hold racist views. And even if he turns out to be responsible for this murder, to me it's a long step from sending bombs through the mail."

"Our UnSub likely prides himself on being able to blend in, at least in his own mind," Morgan responded. "He may think nobody will notice a few random acts of violence mixed in with something much more noticeable. If you think of him as someone who stands out in a crowd, he's gonna slip through the net unnoticed."

"Fair enough," Brighton conceded, relaxing his stance. "But I'm not gonna give the media a chance to jump all over the NYPD if we end up nailing this guy for the wrong thing."

"If we don't act and he does turn out to be responsible," JJ said, "do you think you'll look any better? How do you think the families of the next attacks victims would feel? How would _you_ feel?"

There was clearly nothing to be said to that, for Brighton merely pursed his lips and cast his eyes downward.

"We're doing our best to make sure that there isn't another attack," Hotch interjected. "We'll know better if Kingston is behind them once we have him in custody. For now we have to work with what we have. Prentiss and Morgan, go interview the wife, see what she knows. JJ, prepare the initial media statement. Standard 'investigation is ongoing, the FBI is urging anyone with information to come forward' request. Rossi, Reid and I will stay here and try to figure out if there's any kind of deeper pattern to the bombings. It may help us figure out what the next target's going to be."

"I'll keep my officers on alert in case we get anything on Kingston's whereabouts," Brighton added.

Hotch nodded. "Alright, good. Everyone move out."

* * *

><p>"Why is it that every time someone says 'with all due respect', what they really mean is 'kiss my ass'?" Emily asked aloud on the way to the safe-house in Queens.<p>

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Morgan asked from behind the wheel.

Emily sighed. "From my personal experience, whenever anyone feels like they know better than everyone else and are challenged on it, that's the line that comes up more often than any other. My mother used to use that when I was a child." She changed her voice to that of an older woman. "'With all due respect Emily, I know what's better for you than you do'. It used to drive me insane!"

"Damn, you and she really _didn't_ get along back then, did you?"

"Who said anything about back then? That's what she said to me when I told her I was going to join the BAU!"

"You know, we're all on the same side here, Prentiss," Morgan responded cautiously, trying to direct the conversation back towards the case. "Brighton's just trying to do what he feels is best."

"I'm surprised to hear _you_ of all people making excuses for him," Emily retorted. "What, with all that 'mistakes get you killed' rhetoric while training cadets."

Morgan fixed her with a look. "I thought we got past that already."

"_We_ did, but I'm not sure that _you_ did."

"It's not the same and you know it," Morgan replied a little testily. "We all have made a commitment to catching whoever is responsible for these bombings, just like we have for any other case. Things rarely go smoothly when we do our job; fighting and arguing with the local PD isn't going to make it any easier."

The remark stuck in Emily's jaw. She knew he was right, but she sure as hell didn't have to feel good about it. She lapsed into silence and for the rest of the ride nothing more was said.

Upon arriving at the safe-house, they had to pass through two vehicular checkpoints manned by heavily-armed police officers. Security is was so tight, it looked more like that for the President rather than a witness in protective custody. On the minds of both agents was the same thing: clearly this was a woman who was more than just a little scared for her life.

Exiting the vehicle, they walked towards the single-floor, brown-bricked building, showing their identification to the officer posted by the front door. He gave them a thorough examination before nodding in approval. "All good," he said. "You can go ahead. Just be cautious when you talk to her; she's a little... on edge."

"Does she have reason to be?" Emily asked.

The cop shrugged. "She certainly seems to think so herself."

Emily and Morgan exchanged glances before walking up the door. Morgan knocked smartly three times and a moment later, there was a buzz from the intercom next to the door and a female voice followed. _"Who is it?"_

"Special Agents Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss, Ms. Ramos," Morgan replied. "We're with the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit."

"_I want to see your badges. Hold them up to the peephole."_

The two agents complied, and after a few moments later, the door was opened cautiously a little bit, revealing Alexis Ramos, a petite-sized young woman with long blonde hair tied back into a tight ponytail and cautious, alert blue eyes. Though her face was the same one as forwarded to them by Garcia, the colourful, smiling cheerful woman in the picture now seemed pale, haggard and aged. She wore a simple white sweatshirt and light blue jeans. The one hand that was visible, and whose ring finger still bore her wedding ring, gripped the door tightly as her eyes darted between the two. "I didn't hear anything about the FBI coming," she said suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"We'd like to talk to you, Ms. Ramos," Emily said gently.

"Why?"

"Because we think you may be able to help us."

"Why should I?" Alexis challenged, shifting her weight. "Nobody seemed to care when my husband needed help. What makes you think I'll help you now?"

"Because a lot of lives may rest on what you tell us, Ms. Ramos," Emily pressed gently. "A lot of lives have already been lost- too many lives. We're hoping that what you tell us may be able to help us save more. I understand this is not an easy time, but if you talk to us, we may be able to catch your husband's killer."

Alexis stood silent for a moment, her eyes barely blinking, as though digesting the information and weighing the pros and cons. After a few moments of this, she slowly pushed open the door. Her right hand, held loosely at her side, clutched a can of mace. "Come into the living room," she said finally. "It'll be easier to talk there."

Morgan and Emily followed the young woman into the room in question, which boasted little more than some old leather chairs on one side of a wooden coffee table and a matching sofa on the other. Alexis gestured for them to take the chairs as she sank into the sofa, next to blanketed baby bucket.

Morgan raised an eyebrow as she put the mace down on the floor next to her. "You seem very paranoid, even in protective custody."

"Rather be safe than sorry. Besides, I'm not going to take any chances. Not with my daughter." She reached into the bucket and gently lifted out a small bundle wrapped in blankets. Amongst the pink, the agents could make out the tiny figure of a sleeping baby within them. "Angelina... she's all that Johnny left behind to remind me of him."

"Johnny?" Emily questioned.

"My husband- that was what everyone called him." The barest hint of a smile crossed Alexis' face as she cuddled her daughter. "He told me that his brother gave him that name when he was four and it stuck. A great name to go along with a great man who helped create a beautiful little girl."

The smile was quickly replaced by a look of steely determination. "_Anyone_ lays a finger on my daughter, I'll kill them myself."

"Ms. Ramos, we looked into the police report on your husband's death," Morgan said. "It said that you accused your father as the most likely suspect. Why?"

"Because I _know_ he's responsible," she replied without hesitation.

"What makes you so sure?" Emily prompted.

"Because I grew up with the man for twenty-two years. I know what he's like."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he's guilty," Morgan responded.

"See, this is exactly what happened at the start!" Alexis snapped. "No one would listen to me when I said he was guilty- not the police and now not the FBI! If you came all the way out here just to call me a liar, I want you to leave right now!"

"We're not calling you anything," Emily said soothingly. "We just want to know why you feel so strongly the way you do. It may help us figure out exactly what happened."

Alexis took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just... really high-strung right now. I haven't slept in days, and when I do I dream of Johnny. He's always there, calling out to me for help. But I can't help him." A tear escaped the corner of her eye which she quickly wiped away. "And then I'm constantly worried about my daughter's safety."

"Any mother would," Emily said reassuringly. _Except possibly my own._

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" Morgan asked.

Alexis sniffed and gave a slight smile. "I'm a southern girl," she said dryly. "My mother died when I was a baby and my father moved around New Mexico whenever his job required it."

"He was a border guard," Emily filled in.

Alexis nodded. "I was always Daddy's Little Girl, an only child. My father always spoiled me as a kid. Just about anything I wanted, I could get, even if we didn't have that much money. It was pretty much a dream childhood."

"But..." Morgan prompted.

"My father had a dark side that he didn't bother to keep hidden. If there was ever a person not only worthy of being called a racist but was proud of it, it was him. He hated anyone who was different; blacks, Jews, Asians, gays- anyone who didn't fit into his own worldview was scum. It was Hispanics he hated most of all though; said they were all illegal parasites who took jobs away from real Americans and that if it were up to him, any Hispanic who refused to go back to their 'own' country should be shot. He went on and on about how Spanish was going to become the new official language because 'the Mexicans' were popping out babies faster than we could."

"Tough stuff to hear as a child," Emily said.

"I believed it all." Alexis shook her head in disgust. "He was my father; I thought what he was telling me was true. That anyone who wasn't white and Protestant was less than human. He frequently used racist terms around me and before long I was using them as well. I got a full day in-class suspension in sixth grade when I called a little Latino boy in my class a wetback; the teacher gave me such a scathing lecture about inappropriate names, my ears almost caught fire. Oh God," she groaned. "What the hell was I thinking?"

"You were a kid. It's tough at that age to know what's right and wrong."

"Yeah well, my teacher apparently thought so too. She called my father in to talk. Guess she figured out that I learned it from him. He didn't care what she said; neither did I. I went right on with my own racist way of thinking for years."

"What happened to change it?" Morgan asked.

"My father took his actions a bit too far. We were out one evening when I was fifteen and this African-American boy I'd seen around school said hello to me. He was just being nice, even though he knew I probably wouldn't have returned the greeting. My dad beat the hell out of him; told him that if he so much as looked at me again, he'd kill him. That was when I started having doubts about what I'd been taught all these years. It's one thing to call someone a name; it's another to actually attack them and threaten them with death. I started to realize that what I'd been doing was wrong and vowed to change my ways. It wasn't easy at first- how do you forget something you've been taught since birth? But I managed to get past it."

"And your husband?"

Alexis smiled thinly. "I was studying to become an accountant in Albuquerque. We met in a coffee shop when I was in third year. The moment I saw him, I thought he was the handsomest man I'd ever seen with his olive complexion, dark hair and zesty smile. We must have spent almost three hours just talking. He was amazing; warm, kind, funny, respectful. Everything my father had said about Hispanics went right out of my mind. Johnny told me that his family was from Guatemala and he was the only one of them who was a US citizen because he had been born here; the rest of them were still stuck in the bureaucratic nightmare that was the immigration process. He was working as a mechanic, trying to save enough money to open up his own business.I knew right then and there that I wanted to be with him."

"I take it your father didn't approve of that," Emily said.

"He couldn't know. When we started dating, I told Johnny about my father's views and that if he ever found out about us, he would kill us both. And that would have been the God's honest truth, agents. I expected him to walk away and wouldn't have blamed him if he didn't want to risk his life. But he just kissed me and told me that I was worth all the risk.

"Just before I graduated, I told him that my father would expect me to return home and find myself a 'nice white guy' to marry. I said I didn't know what to do; I loved Johnny with all my heart but I was scared of what would happen if I didn't come back. He said that sometimes you have to take risks in order to get what you really want. Then he got down on one knee and proposed to me. I was so mixed-up emotionally, I didn't give my father a second thought before I said yes."

"Daring," Morgan remarked.

Alexis nodded. "Yes, but I knew where my heart was. I wanted to be with him forever, and not even my father could change that. We got married in secret a week before my graduation. I even converted to Catholicism because he was Catholic, even though he said it wasn't necessary, that he would love me no matter what religion I followed. I managed to use the money left over from my scholarships to move us both to New York. I thought we were safe, far out of my father's reach. We lived here quietly for four years. I worked as an accountant, he managed to open his own garage. Then, a year ago," Alexis smiled and hugged her daughter closer, "I found out I was pregnant.

"I cried. He cried. I don't think I'd ever seen him as emotional as he did when I told him he was going to be a dad. When Angelina was born, he... he thanked God for allowing him to be there when his daughter entered the world." The happy look vanished. "I was never a very religious person, but the night we brought her home, I got down on my knees and prayed to God that He would keep my daughter and husband safe, no matter what. I guess God was out on that day!" She spat.

"What happened the day he died?"

Alexis took a deep breath. "Six months ago, I got a phone call from one of my old friends back in New Mexico. She said that my father had somehow found out where we lived and was moving up to New York. I told Johnny that it wasn't safe anymore, that we had to leave as soon as possible. He said no, that he wasn't going to run and hide like a coward, and that if we were going to face him, we would do it head on. He didn't know how ruthless my father could be.

"Then, one day last month, Johnny didn't come home from work like he normally did. I waited for hours, phoned his garage, asking if he had merely stayed late. They told me he hadn't. I just _knew_ something was wrong, so I called the police to report him missing. They told me they couldn't file a missing person's report unless he'd been gone at least forty-eight hours. I told them that if they didn't search for him, I would go out and search the entire city myself. They finally agreed to search for him. I stayed up all night waiting for news. Then... at five am... there was a knock at the door..." The woman dissolved into a flood of tears and sobs.

Emily and Morgan looked at each other. They waited patiently for Alexis to calm down enough to speak. "I knew my father was responsible," she said shakily, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. "I just _knew_ it. The police told me he'd been castrated after he was beaten to death. That was just my father's way of thinking; this Latino had dared to have sex with a white woman, an act so horrible that it demanded he lose his manhood along with his life. That man helped create me, and now the son of a bitch had murdered the man who helped create my own daughter!"

Alexis paused for a moment, apparently trying to calm herself down so as not to wake the sleeping baby. Emily offered her a bottle of water, which she gratefully accepted. After a few long sips, she went on, "I knew we had to leave our house, in case my father came around. I wasn't scared for me; I was scared for Angelina. I knew that the chances he would let her live would be much less than he would give me."

That surprised Emily. "You're certain?"

Alexis nodded. "If there's one thing he hates more than anything else, it's a mixed child. He used to describe it as 'mixing clean pure water with shit-filled sewage'. And he was determined to prevent it whenever he could." She swallowed hard. "My father once told me... that if I ever gave birth to a child that wasn't 100% pure white, he would slit its throat right in front of me."

At that point, Morgan's cellphone rang and he left the room in order to answer it.

Emily said, "Ms. Ramos, we're going to do all we find out who killed your husband but we can't guarantee the answers will be what you hope."

"It's not a matter of hope, it's a matter of justice!" Alexis proclaimed furiously. "Justice for a good man who was taken far too soon from this world! Justice for a woman who lost the love of her life! Justice for a little girl who will grow up never remembering anything about her dad!"

"We _will_ find your father, Ms. Ramos. And when we do, we're going to find out if he's responsible for Johnny's murder. If he is, I give you my word he'll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. If not, maybe he can tell us who is."

Alexis stared at the dark-haired woman evenly. "Do you have children, Agent Prentiss?"

Emily was able to push back the painful, guilty memory that prodded at the back of her mind and answer calmly, "No."

"Have you ever known a man who could make your heart race, your mouth run dry and your stomach turn over in knots?"

This time her resilience wasn't so successful; the images of just a few short hours ago forced their way to the front of her mind, and she felt another small spark in her stomach. "No, I haven't." The lie passed through her lips with not quite as much conviction as she wanted.

"Then you can't possibly understand my point of view. You can't understand what it's like to know that you can never reach out and touch that person again, or that your child will eventually ask you for the first time 'where's my daddy'? Maybe one day you will understand. But for your sake, I hope you have a happier experience than I did."

Emily pursed her lips. This line of discussion was starting to become rather uncomfortable for her. Fortunately, she was saved by Morgan's return. "We appreciate your time, Ms. Ramos. If you think of anything else that could help us, give us a call," he said, handing her a card. "By the way, one last question... would you happen to know if your father knew anything about explosives? Building them? Setting them up?"

"Explosives?" Alexis looked genuinely surprised. "I don't think so. I mean, he knew his way around guns easily enough, of course, but I doubt he knew anything about constructing anything explosive. Why?"

"Just covering all bases. Thank you for your time."

Back outside, Morgan asked, "So what did you get from that?"

Emily shook her head. "I'm not sure," she replied as they climbed into the van. "She certainly seems convinced that her father is responsible for killing her husband, but we can't take that as concrete evidence. And even if he is, it may not be connected to the bombings at all."

Morgan started the engine. "Well, we may get answers sooner than later."

"What do you mean?"

"That call was from Hotch," he replied, putting the vehicle in drive. "NYPD just got a hit on David Lee Kingston."

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**Caution: The next chapter will contain racist/offensive language. Just a heads-up for everyone.**

**If anyone's interested, I have my own theory on how Emily will be written off the show at the end of this season. If anyone's interested in hearing/discussing it, send me a private PM.**


	8. I-7

It was a half hour later that Morgan and Emily arrived at the location of the suspect in question- a cheap, rundown looking motel in the heart of Brooklyn. They parked alongside the row of vans and police vehicles on the next block and rendezvoused with Hotch, JJ and a group of police officers led by Detective Brighton.

"We're sure he's in there?" Morgan asked as he and Emily strapped on their Kevlar vests.

"He's there alright," Brighton confirmed. "One of our unmarked units spotted him entering the front entrance with a case of beer about forty-five minutes ago and went to talk to the manager. It took a while, but he finally admitted that the guy in Room 225 may be Kingston."

"It took a while?" Emily questioned.

The corners of the detective's mouth pulled down in distaste. "Yeah. His memory's not the greatest right now. Probably has something to do with the half dozen empty whiskey bottles on the floor behind his desk."

"So how do we know this is really who we're looking for?"

"The manager may not be at the top of his game, but my officers are. If they said they saw David Lee Kingston, they saw David Lee Kingston."

"Any idea on whether he's armed?" JJ asked as she and Hotch, already geared up, joined them.

"The daughter says he certainly knows his way around guns," Morgan replied. "Former border agent with a hot temper, I'd say there's a good chance he's packing."

"Better take no chances," Hotch said decisively. "Assume he's armed and ready to use violence. How many ways in and out of that room?"

"Just the front door and the window overlooking the back."

"Alright, Morgan and JJ go round the back and cut off that route. Prentiss and I will take the front."

The two teams spread out and carefully made their way down the block to the motel. Hotch and Emily, accompanied by Brighton and two officers, made their way inside the front and up the dark, damp staircase. Emily couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the mouldy smell that permeated the hallway; she had long learned that the more obscure a place was, the worse it was kept. Meanwhile, JJ and Morgan slipped around back, where the motel overlooked a back alley; if Kingston tried to make a break for it that way, they would be there to catch him.

Hotch's team stopped outside Room 225. Glancing at Brighton, he saw the detective nod before rapping sharply on the door. "David Lee Kingston! FBI, open up!"

There was just the briefest of pauses before the team heard a loud crash from inside followed by the sound of running away from the front of the door. Hotch didn't hesitate before breaking it down and the team spilled into the apartment, weapons drawn. Emily caught just the briefest glance of a figure disappearing into the bathroom at the back of the unit before it slammed shut, which was followed a second later by the smashing of glass. Hotch ran over and tried the door, only to find it barricaded.

"Morgan, JJ, he's headed your way towards the alley!"

"_Got it!"_

"Come on!" The ex-prosecutor, not wanting to try to waste time on the door, led the way back out the front with Emily and an officer while Brighton and the remaining cop put forth their efforts into trying to force open the way into the bathroom.

Out back, Morgan was the first to catch sight of the fleeing suspect, who vaulted off the second story catwalk and landed only a few yards away. He immediately pointed his gun in Kingston's direction. "FBI, freeze!"

The man seemed to stop for a split second, then suddenly whirled around and flung something at the agent. Morgan couldn't see what it was at first, but was barely able to get his arm up to shield his face. He felt the painful sting of metal on flesh, the object ricocheting of his forearm and grazing his head. The blow wasn't particularly strong but it was enough to daze him and knock him off his feet, the crowbar clanging to the ground next to him.

Kingston then turned towards JJ, who had had no time to react to stop Morgan from being hit. Being right in front of her, he knocked her weapon away with surprising speed. Fortunately, she was able to recover quickly. As he swung a right punch towards her, she blocked it, pivoted and rammed her elbow into his sternum. He grunted and doubled over in pain and she swung her knee upwards; she was aiming for his nose but he was a fast healer and she only ended knocking his forehead, barely dazing him. He caught her with a left jab right under the eye, stunning her for a brief second before wrapping his hands around her throat and began to squeeze tightly. JJ grabbed hold on his forearms and tried to pry them off, but he was much stronger than her and soon she was beginning to see black.

In a sudden burst of strength, she rammed her knee up into his groin; his knees turned to water and he released his hold on her throat. This time, JJ didn't miss and her open-handed palm slammed into his nose. As he howled in pain, she flipped him over her shoulder onto his stomach and bent his arm painfully behind his back. Kingston tried to rise up and struggle out of it, but was pushed back onto the ground by a bruised and angry Morgan.

"Hey, hey! Stop resisting!" JJ shouted as Morgan slapped his cuffs onto Kingston's wrists.

The former border officer was spitting mad. "You fucking bitch!" He screamed, his face red as a tomato. "You fucking little bitch!" And he spat right in her face.

"Hey!" Morgan shouted as he increased his grip on the man. "Watch your mouth!"

Fortunately for them, the cavalry arrived quickly, with the arrival of Hotch and Emily. Even so, it took all four agents to lift the still struggling suspect to his feet and hold him steady.

"You mind taking charge of him?" Hotch asked Brighton as the detective finally arrived on the scene from the catwalk above.

"My pleasure." Brighton took hold of Kingston's arm and led him none too gently away, the two officers on either side of him.

Hotch and Emily took a look at the bruised faces of their colleagues. "You two okay?" Hotch asked with concern.

JJ wiped the spit from her face. "Yeah, I'm fine. It'll barely be noticeable. I mean, Will will be concerned and Henry will think I've been 'fighting the boogeymen' again, but that'll be it."

"You're sure?" Emily questioned, looking at Morgan. "You're not looking so hot."

"I'll be better once we put the son of a bitch in Interrogation," Morgan growled as he strode out of the alley, leaving the others with little choice but to catch up.

* * *

><p>Hotch stood in front of the glass separating the observation room from Interrogation, staring at the burly man sitting behind the desk with a cold, expressionless face, saying nothing to Brighton who sat across from him asking questions. It was only now that Hotch got a good look at David Lee Kingston. Apart from the stubble on his cheeks, he looked the same as he did in his photo; a stoney, almost military-like face with few creases or wrinkles, a dark shade of tan having been brought on by the hot New Mexico sun. His short hair, which may have once been a shade of blond, was now grizzled and grey. His blue eyes were the same colour as that of his daughter, but unlike Alexis' there was no trace of warmth within them; they were cold and piercing and made anyone who looked into them feel a distinct chill run through their body. It was clear that the gaze had been perfected over years of hunting for alleged illegal aliens, and that more than a few had likely been on the receiving end of this invisible weapon.<p>

Hotch could easily see why the daughter had been so adamant in her belief that this was the man responsible for the murder of her husband; Kingston's appearance was such that if people were told he was Jack the Ripper, a good number of them might just believe it. Unfortunately, appearance meant very little in cases such as these, and the ex-prosecutor knew they would have to get inside the man's mind to see whether there was any chance of being not only Hector Juan Ramos' killer, but also their UnSub.

The rest of the team, minus Reid, arrived just as Brighton exited the interrogation room, sighing heavily. "It's no use," he said, shaking his head. "He won't talk."

"Maybe he'll be more cooperative when he realizes that this situation is bigger than he imagined," Emily suggested. "If he isn't our UnSub and realizes that FBI is looking at him as a suspect in a series of bombings, he might be more willing to tell us what he knows. He can't want to be mixed up in it if he's not involved."

"Or he might clam up even more," Rossi countered. "He doesn't seem to have a real respect for authority. Putting the jump on him too fast could backfire in our faces." He turned and raised an eyebrow at Morgan and JJ, the latter of whom was holding an icepack under her eye. "No offence."

JJ waved her free hand airily. "None taken."

Morgan nodded towards the glass. "He may not be the UnSub we're looking for, but we should still make sure he knows we mean business. We can start off with Ramos' killing and see how he reacts; might tell us where to go from there."

Hotch agreed. "Rossi, you take the lead. He obviously considers himself a strong personality; let's see how he matches up against equal challenges."

Rossi barely repressed a smirk. "How flattering of you."

"He also clearly has very little respect for different racial groups." Hotch looked at Morgan. "His anger at being challenged by a person in authority who isn't white may cause him to reveal extra details."

Morgan nodded. "Got it."

"Doesn't seem to have much love for women either," JJ volunteered.

"And the fact that he was beaten by one can't have been too good for his macho ego," Rossi pointed out before turning back to JJ. "No offence."

"None taken."

"He did seem really pissed off about it," Morgan interjected. "Alexis Ramos was clearly living in fear, even under protective custody. I'm starting to see why; being there with her daughter takes away his control over her."

"Well," Rossi went on, "since JJ already kicked his ass, I guess this one's yours, Prentiss."

Emily nodded. "Guess it's gonna piss him off even more to have two women have power over him in one day."

"We should get Garcia down here. She has so many resources to play around with at her fingertips, he'd be confessing to 9/11 before the day's out."

There was a sprinkle of chuckles throughout the room before Hotch brought it back to order. "Let's see what he has to say first. Don't spring the news about the bombings unless you think you've got a solid connection; we may need the element of surprise."

David Lee Kingston barely reacted when Rossi entered the room. His jaw clenched at the sight of Morgan and when Emily walked in, the agents could almost _feel_ the heat radiating off him. Nevertheless he remained silent and expressionless as Rossi took a seat in front of him.

"Well now, David, I hear you're not in much of talking mood right now." The senior agent said smoothly, as if talking to an old friend. "You know, I find that strange considering you had some very specific things to say to us just an hour ago."

Kingston glared at Rossi, but continued to say nothing.

Rossi chuckled. "Of course, where are my manners? We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Special Agent Rossi. These are Special Agents Prentiss and Morgan, who I believe you're already acquainted with." He looked directly at the man across from him, watching his face closely. "We're with the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI."

For the first time since he was brought in, a crack seemed to appear in Kingston's armour. He blinked once and shifted slightly in his chair. "Yeah?" He said gruffly. "So what?"

"So we like to find out what makes people tick inside. And since you've been nice enough to be our guinea pig for the day, we'd like to find out why you do what you do."

"I ain't sayin' a goddamn thing to you."

"But we have so much to talk about," Rossi said, leaning back in his chair. "Like, for instance, why you decided to first run and then physically assault a couple federal agents when we came to talk to you."

"That was your own fault!" Kingston growled, his anger starting to come back into his voice. "People come breakin' into my livin' space with guns drawn, it's my right to defend myself."

"But see the trouble with that is, you started running _before_ we entered the room. You see how fleeing the scene kind of gets our attention, David? The bad kind of attention?"

"I ain't got nothin' to hide."

"So if that's the case, why would you run in the first place?" Morgan spoke up.

Kingston eyed Morgan with a subtle but evident look of disgust. "I don't answer to niggers."

"But you do have to answer to the FBI, which all of us here happen to be part of," Rossi countered.

"If you have nothing to hide, why keep silent?" Emily questioned. "Surely anything you say would be to your advantage."

"Cause I know my rights! I'm a law-abidin' American citizen."

"Funny," she countered, narrowing her eyes as though racking her brain for something. "I didn't know physically assaulting FBI agents was suddenly considered law-abiding."

"And who the hell are you to lecture me?" Kingston snarled. "Some two-bit dyke whose parents sent you to some liberal government school?"

"No," she answered coolly. "I'm a federal agent trying to solve a case."

"Speaking of which, I'm sure you know all about cases, David." Rossi produced a folder and made a great show of looking through with intense interest. "Here's a couple you might remember. Actually you probably do, since you were the ones they were brought against. January 1999 and May 2000, twice investigated for assaulting Hispanic men-"

"I didn't do nothin' wrong," Kingston interrupted. "Sons of bitches were illegal drug dealers who attacked me first. I did what I needed to do to defend myself."

"And I guess that was the case as well for 2007. Physical assault on a black man in Albuquerque. According to this, you two had been neighbours for a few years. Another secret drug dealer after your blood?"

"A misunderstandin'. Guy's wife wanted me to fuck her brains out while he was away for the day. I refused, as any self-respecting white man would. Bitch went ballistic and then told her husband I gone tried to rape her. He attacked me with a knife and I reacted the way I had to."

Morgan and Emily shared a glance and a train of thought. Funny how the man seemed to have an excuse for everything, or else it was all someone else's fault.

Apparently Rossi felt the same way. "Yeah," he said with obvious scepticism. "I can see how women couldn't possibly keep away from you."

"Look, if you're here to give me shit about my views, you're wastin' your time," Kingston declared brusquely. "Yes, I'm a racist. Yes, I believe that whites are a superior race than all others. I don't deny that. I'm proud of it."

"You're part of a small minority," Morgan responded.

"Was I talkin' to ya, boy?" Kingston snapped. "I guess you think you're hot shit here with your badge and gun in here. Let's take a walk outside man-to-man and see how tough you are then."

Emily marvelled at the way Morgan kept his cool. "You give me a call when you want to do that. Hector Juan Ramos."

"The fuck is that?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know who he is," Rossi stepped in. "Mechanic who was beaten to death and then castrated in Albany on February 21."

"Why should I care?"

"He was your daughter Alexis' husband," Emily said with steel in her voice. "The father of her child. The father of your granddaughter."

Kingston's face turned scarlet. "That half-breed ain't no granddaughter of mine."

"Why not?" Rossi asked. "Because her father wasn't white?"

"Damn straight. I raised my daughter right. That she was to marry a white man and only a white man. Then she goes away to school and runs away with some little wetback shit. How the hell could she do that me after everything I did for her?"

"Maybe it was your charming attitude," Rossi suggested smoothly.

"I raised my daughter the way a girl should be raised!" Kingston shouted, pounding the table with his fist. "I treated her right and expected she would live the right kinda life! Instead she went and turned traitor! She betrayed her family, her race, everything that shoulda mattered, and married some fuckin' illegal Mexican who knocks her up with a half-breed. And people wonder why the white race is dyin' off!"

"Ramos wasn't illegal," Morgan replied coolly. "He was a US citizen born in New Mexico whose family was from Guatemala."

"What the fuck does it matter?"

"As interesting as all this discussion on racial equality is," Rossi interjected, "the fact is that in our eyes, you're not so well off right now, David."

"What the hell are-"

"Let me spell it out for you." Rossi suddenly turned very serious, leaning in close. "Your daughter's Hispanic husband was murdered on February 21 in Albany, five months after you move there from Albuquerque. We have testimony from your daughter that you've acted violently towards non-whites in the past. We have records confirming that. You leave your house after Mr. Ramos' death and stay in a motel that even most serial killers would go out of their way to avoid. You run and then physically assault the FBI agents who come knocking on your door. And all you can say is that you don't know what all this is about? I thought you were a smarter man than this, David."

"I didn't kill nobody!" Kingston shouted.

"Your daughter says you told her you would slit the throat of any child she had that was of mixed race," Emily said forcefully.

"I wasn't bein' serious," He grunted. "Just makin' sure she knew the consequences of doing the wrong thing."

"You mean the wrong thing according to you?" She challenged.

Kingston stared up at her in rage. "Who the fuck are you to tell me right from wrong?" He shouted, standing up. "You're just a bitch with a gun! You and your blonde dyke friend who-"

Morgan and Rossi had both made steps to restrain the man, but were cut off when Emily suddenly appeared right in front of the table and all but slammed her badge down in front of his face, cutting him off mid-rant.

"You see this?" She said quietly but very dangerously. "This says 'Agent'. Which means you will address me as such. And for the record," she leaned in close, "my blonde friend is the one who knocked your balls up to your ears and arrested you. That's right- a woman and a black man took you down. Now if you want to start helping yourself, you'll quit with all these nice labels you have for everyone and you'll start answering our questions civilly. Now- Sit. Down."

Kingston's jaw stuck and tensed, but he said nothing else as he slowly lowered himself back into his chair. "Look... I'm fully aware why you'd look at me in this case, but I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"You're not being awfully convincing, David." Rossi said pointedly.

"There's one thing none of you may understand- I love Alexis."

"Sure have a funny way of showing it," Morgan said.

"Yeah? Well, it's the truth. I've loved Alexis since the day she was born. She was my only child and I made sure she was happy growing up. That don't change the fact that she's gone done unforgivable things. Marrying any man who ain't white, let alone a filthy spic, and bearing a child whose skin is tainted by his inferior genes is an abomination to me and to the white race. She's made horrible decisions; that don't mean I'd wish death on her."

"To hear her say it, that's exactly what she thinks," Emily countered.

Kingston leaned back in his chair. "If she were to realize her mistake and come back to the right way of thinking, I'd welcome her with open arms."

"Back to thinking that whites are the only worthy race in the world."

"Exactly. And until she does, I don't consider her my daughter. I consider her a spic-loving, half-breed spawning, traitorous whore."

"Such a nice way to describe someone you purportedly care for so much," Rossi said dryly.

"I don't expect you to understand," Kingston growled. "You've spent too much time listening to them liberals who think we should all hold hands and embrace each other. You don't believe me or like what I have to say, fine. But I'll tell you this; I ain't never laid a finger on Alexis or her daughter and I never would. I don't consider them family or believe they're equal to purebred whites, but I would never harm them. As far as her wetback husband is concerned, you say he was killed on February 21?"

"That's right."

Kingston nodded. "That whole week, I was in Buffalo stayin' over at a friend's place. The entire time I only left once to go to the grocery store and wasn't out for more than twenty minutes. I haven't set foot outside my neighbourhood except for that one time since the day I arrived."

He straightened up. "If you're looking for the guy who cut that spic's dick off and then bashed his brains in, agents, you got the wrong guy. I wish I could say I did kill the little fucker; he deserved it after spoiling a pure white woman and knockin' her up with a shit-stained brat. But I didn't, and there ain't a goddamn thing you can do to prove it."

"We'll see about that," Rossi said, standing up. "But just so you know, you're still gonna be charged with assaulting federal agents. You may or may not be a killer, David, but you are the biggest scumbag I've seen in a long time. But while I still have the honour of speaking to such a scumbag, enlighten me on something- you know anything about bombs or explosives?"

"Bombs? I don't nothin' about no bombs! What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"It passes the time for me. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Kingston."

As the trio returned to Observation, Hotch waited until the door had closed behind them, then remarked, "We're having Garcia check on his alibi right now. If he was in Buffalo at the time of the killing, this is likely going to be a dead end."

"Even if he's innocent of this crime, he may still be the bomber," Morgan argued. "He clearly has no qualms about using violence."

"His records show there have been no transactions regarding the purchase of bomb-making material. Unless we find out that he got it from somewhere else, I'm not convinced that he's our UnSub."

"Yeah, well if there was a law against spouting bigotry, he'd be in jail with no chance of parole for the rest of his measly existence," Rossi declared. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who's pissed me off so much in my entire life, not even some of my ex-wives." He chuckled before turning to Morgan and Emily. "I'm amazed you two kept your cool for as long as you did."

Morgan shrugged. "It's nothing I haven't heard before."

"I was just saving my energy for one point where it would have the most impact," Emily added.

"And a major impact it had," JJ said, giving a smirk which Emily returned. "I don't remember the last time I heard anyone shut down so quickly."

"Assuming that Kingston isn't responsible for the bombings, he still might have had contact with the one who did," Rossi suggested, stroking his goatee. "A guy with his views can't just sit around all day griping to himself about how the country's going to hell. There's gotta be someone out there who has the same views and was willing to act on it."

"You think he might have known the UnSub?" JJ asked.

"Whether he realized it or not, it's a definite possibility. He may have made an unknowing remark to the UnSub- just some friendly chat between two men- and given him the idea without knowing it. Or he may have just wanted to not get his hands dirty by having someone else do all the work."

"He did say he was staying at a friend's house in Buffalo," Morgan pointed out. "That's as good a place as anywhere to start looking."

"We'll have Garcia check that as soon as she confirms his alibi," Hotch responded.

"So are you planning on holding Kingston under federal custody or releasing him to us?" Brighton asked.

"Continue to hold him here for now." Hotch looked through the glass at the former border agent. "Even if he's not guilty of actually doing anything, we may be able to charge him as an accomplice. Plus the fact that he attacked federal agents; at the very least, that's going to stick. We can see what progress Reid has made into seeing if there's any kind of discernible pattern in the bombings. Other that that, I'm not sure what else we can do without more information. Anyone have any other suggestions?"

A low, audible rumbling echoed throughout the room, and everyone turned to look at the source.

Emily looked around sheepishly, her cheeks turning slightly red. She glanced down at her stomach with what might be described as an accusatory look.

"Um... maybe we can track down some of these leads over lunch?"

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**The next chapter is going to be really good!**

**Also, see my profile for an important update.**


	9. I-8

The search for leads continued all day.

In spite of the intense efforts put forth by the team, they were ultimately unable to come up with anything solid. Rossi and Reid, who for once had been stumped and unable to come with a possible suggestion as to where the bomber might strike next, had verified David Lee Kingston's alibi for the date of his son-in-law's murder and both of them had discovered, to no big surprise, that his friends were old acquaintances from younger days who enthusiastically shared his opinion on racial superiority.

"That's not really surprising," Reid had remarked afterwards. "People have always clustered around others who share their views, particularly in times of fear and uncertainty. During the Great Depression, there was widespread resentment and discrimination of Jews and other minorities who blamed them for the economic conditions. It's what gave Hitler and the Nazis so much popularity in Germany. These days, with the fear of another terrorist attack like 9/11, people find it easier to blame Muslims as an entire group rather than the extreme fringes responsible for such atrocities."

"So in the case of these bombings, all we need to do is find someone in the state of New York who has a problem with the government." Rossi snorted. "That's not gonna make our list of possible UnSubs any shorter."

"Strictly speaking, the ideology of right-wing extremists is illogical in that they claim to be fighting against the intrusion of the federal government in their private lives. In reality, many of these individuals likely strongly oppose personal matters such abortion, same-sex marriage and the separation of church and state, an ideology which most moderates believe is equal with government intrusion. In the same manner, left-wing extremists are normally fanatically opposed to the capitalist system and emphasize workers' rights, even when eliminating the system is not pragmatic and workers are oppressed even more afterwards."

"Isn't this one big happy world we live in."

Financial history came up with a big negative as well, as Garcia reported that while one of Kingston's friends had purchased fertilizer in the past few weeks, it wasn't nearly enough to create explosives on the scales that the mail bombs had been made of. A search warrant executed on his house revealed nothing incriminating; his computer was seized and sent to Garcia, who revealed that it contained visits to New York gun club websites, right-wing news sources and a liberal helping of (all white) adult entertainment, but nothing that linked him to any crime; no hate blogs searches, no e-mails to other sources, nothing. It seemed as though their only solid lead had gone nowhere.

It was only when Emily unconsciously let out an audible yawn that attention was called to the amount of time they had spent searching. She cast her eyes over to the clock on the wall- and stared. _Eight-thirty?_ How had it gotten so late without them realizing it?

She wasn't the only one. Morgan and JJ were barely stifling their own yawns. Reid's eyes were drooping and his head occasionally bobbed up and down as he caught himself in the middle of dropping off. Rossi had grown silent in the last few hours, staring at the same page in front of him for more than twenty minutes at a time but not really reading it.

Only Hotch seemed completely awake, and when he saw the state of his team members he decided they'd better call it a night before they burned out. "I think we've exhausted all our leads for tonight. We should all get some sleep, start fresh in the morning."

"I'm not tired," Reid protested in mid yawn.

Emily smirked. "Sure, that's why your head looks like it's about to collide with the desk at any moment."

"Is not!"

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"IS TOO!" This time Emily was joined by Morgan, JJ and Rossi, whose levels of patience were severely depleted by the lack of progress and their own various states of exhaustion. Reid looked taken aback by the reaction and didn't say any more.

"We're not going to make any headway like this," Hotch interjected. "We all need clear heads. Catch some sleep, be back here by seven-thirty tomorrow morning."

There wasn't much to be said in response to that. There was too much at stake in this case to be going into it all burned out and on each others' nerves; everyone knew that. With an almost embarrassed silence, JJ and Rossi gathered up their notes and filed out of the room. Hotch followed after, mentioning a phone call to his son Jack before he called it a night. Morgan was just about leave when he noticed Emily taking her time in gathering up her stuff.

"You okay?" He asked concerned.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little tired. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night."

"Well I'm going to grab a bite to eat before heading back to hotel. Wanna join me?"

She smiled thinly. "Thanks, but I think I need an early night. I'll take a rain check on it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the offer though."

He nodded and slung his pack over his shoulder. "Alright, well I'll see you tomorrow then."

She gave him a mock salute. "At the crack of dawn, Agent Morgan."

He chuckled. "Give or take fifteen minutes. Hey, Emily?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself, alright?"

This time it was her turn to chuckle. "Never fear, Uncle Derek is here, right?"

"I'm serious."

"It's okay, Morgan. I got it. No more unnecessary vigilante trips."

He nodded again slowly and paused for a moment. "Good night, Prentiss."

"Night."

As he left the room, Emily let out a breath she'd unconsciously been holding in before closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. The truth of the matter was that she wasn't feeling quite as well as she'd made herself out to be. Her headache had returned with all its annoying glory, likely provoked by her series of emotional, frustrating interviews; it was now throbbing repeatedly inside her skull, and she once again cursed the fact she'd forgotten to bring any aspirin with her. One thing she _hadn't_ lied about was not getting a good night's sleep; being stood up was never something she thought would keep her up at night. Apparently there was a first time for everything.

She gathered up all her belongings into her pack and made to walk out the door. Her original plan had been to go back to hotel the team was staying at, grab a quick meal to-go and crash for the night. That would have been the smart thing to do. The practical thing to do.

It would _not_ be smart to go out to a bar for a drink when she had a headache the size of Texas threatening to consume her.

It would _not_ be practical to put herself in the position to be hungover and less than one hundred percent in the middle of such an important case.

That would _not_ be the right thing to do.

The right thing...

_Screw it_, she thought. If she wanted to drown her sorrows, at least a little bit, and blow off some steam, it was her right to do so. She was no longer a child being told what to do, where to go and what to say by her overbearing mother. She was a grown woman able to make her own decisions, and if those decisions involved alcohol, so be it.

She wasn't looking to get hammered; Emily suppressed a shudder at the thought of what would happen if her colleagues ever found out what she was like when she got really drunk- it was _not_ a pretty sight. Hell, she wasn't even looking to get a buzz. She was trying to find a way to cure the damn migraine that was threatening to consume her mind. She had forgotten the aspirin; might as well make up for it as best she could.

Her decision made, she ran through a list of possible bars in her mind. The one at the hotel didn't offer much in the way of good atmosphere. There was a club just across the street from the station, but her head certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with systemic rhythms and the mass of people moving together. Scratch that one from the list. She racked her brains and finally remembered seeing a small but relatively classy looking bar a few blocks away from the hotel. It seemed just what she needed; somewhere to have one quiet drink to clear her mind before heading back to get a desperately needed good night's rest.

Her headache largely forgotten, she shifted her bag over her shoulder and walked with a somewhat lighter pace out the door.

* * *

><p>Scott Jackson let out a sigh. The weight of decisions rarely hung over him as it did at this moment. He felt like he was torn between two worlds; the boring one in which he could be the goody two-shoes that everyone seemed to want him to be (and that he hated with a passion) and the one where he did what he wanted, when he wanted without giving a shit as to what other people thought (which appealed to him but probably wouldn't be very practical if he wanted to have a job and a roof over his head). He was where he always seemed to be- stuck between both worlds with no easy way forward.<p>

Technically he knew the best thing for him to do was stay home and get plenty of rest; that was what the ER technician had recommended. What he had _not_ recommended he do was travel downtown to a bar and proceed to indulge in alcohol just hours after narrowly avoiding a serious head injury. That would definitely be on the list of no-nos for at least a few days, preferably a week.

A week without going anywhere...

_Screw it_. He'd never been one to follow doctor's orders to the letter anyway. Flinging open the door to his apartment, he felt a sense of pride; he was going to go out to his favourite bar tonight and no one was going to stop him!

"Mr. Jackson? Is that you, dear?"

But no one said anything about delaying him.

"Hi, Mrs. Wraith. How are you this evening?"

"Very well, thank you." Mary Wraith was his neighbour, a dear elderly widow of just over seventy who lived next door and who Scott occasionally helped out with groceries. She was very fond of him and he thought of her in a kind, motherly way. Standing beside her door, clutching a plastic bag , she was dressed the way she always was; in a stiff overcoat and dark pants. Her white hair, wrinkled face and large glasses, however, did nothing to diminish the youthful spark in her eyes that Scott frequently saw; he more than once thought to himself that if you put Betty White in a time machine and rolled the clock back twenty years, the end result would be his next door neighbour.

"Here, let me help you with that." He took hold of the grocery bag while she fished out her key from her purse and unlocked the door.

"Why thank you, Mr. Jackson. It's so nice to have help from young people these days."

"Just doing the best I can, ma'am."

"And I'm very grateful for it. Are you on your way somewhere?"

It took him a second to figure out that she had likely deduced that fact from the leather jacket, black button-down dress shirt and dress jeans he had on. "Oh," he shrugged. "I just needed some fresh air and time to clear my head."

"A busy day at work, was it?"

He chuckled. "You might say that."

"You know, you really ought to get yourself a nice girl, Mr. Jackson."

Scott, momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, took a moment to get back on track. "Uh well, you see, with my job and all, it's kind of hard to-"

"Nonsense," she interrupted briskly. "A young healthy man like you is in large need of good female company. One that has brains, honesty and a healthy sexual appetite."

If Scott still felt embarrassment over his elderly neighbour's frank discussion of such private matters, he credited himself for not showing it. Mrs. Wraith's bluntness had caught him off guard the first few times and left him temporarily at a loss for words, but by now he was pretty sure he had gotten used to it. Mostly.

"Young people nowadays are in such a rush," she was saying. "When I was young, we didn't settle for second best. We went right for the top. It was often a fierce fight, but it was worth it. To the victor went the spoils." She cast a reproachful eye over him. "And your latest tryst, may I say, could hardly be called a victory."

This time the embarrassment wasn't quite so easy to hide. "Ah," he said slowly. "You heard that."

"I most certainly did. In fact, it's a miracle I got any sleep at all during those few weeks. And while I certainly do not disapprove of two young people enjoying intimate moments together, it may be more prudent to enjoy them with someone who can actually have more than one thought in her head at the same time without getting a migraine."

Scott barely suppressed a chuckle; Mrs. Wraith's description of Suzy McMillan was probably the best one he'd ever heard. "Well, don't worry. We're not together any more. I won't be the cause of her brain exploding."

"If you like, I could arrange for you a meeting with another one of my bingo partners' daughters. There is particularly pretty one whose family is from Jamaica. I'm sure I could-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Wraith, but really, I'm okay." Scott didn't mean to be rude or hurt her feelings, but he recalled all too well the last time she set up a blind date between him and the daughter of one of her bingo partners; the date had started off nice enough, but quickly turned into a disaster when he accidentally spilled some Pepsi onto her hand. Mrs. Wraith had unfortunately forgotten to mention that she had a borderline psycho obsession with cleanliness and germs. The girl had freaked out, tried to stab him in the hand with a knife and gone into a full-blown panic attack all in the space of less than ten seconds. Needless to say, they had never arranged for a second date. "I'm trying to focus on my job right now so I can afford to pay tuition."

"Well, if that's what you wish, then that's what you should do." Mrs Wraith nodded her head approvingly. "This country would be in much better shape if more young people had your kind of attitude."

Scott tried to imagine himself being held up as role model for America's children. If it wasn't so absurd, it'd almost be laughable. "I should get going before it gets too late."

Mrs. Wraith smiled kindly. "Of course, dear. And once again, thank you for your help."

Scott returned the smile before turning to walk down the stairs. Despite her forwardness, Mrs. Wraith was very much a likeable person. A very sweet old lady who always had good piece of advice.

"But if it will change your mind, I have heard the rumour about black men in bed is the same for black women!"

Well, usually.

* * *

><p>Emily stood in the middle of the bar, taking in the atmosphere. This was not quite how she imagined the inside would be. Judging from the rather simple, not-so-flashy exterior, she had assumed the interior would be the same; how wrong she was. The entire bar was alive with people, nearly a hundred at her estimate. The music being played wasn't pulsing in a typical club sort of way, but it was still quite loud and didn't allow for much in the way for low conversation. The clientele was overwhelmingly male, ranging from college students (and perhaps the occasional high school kid with a fake ID) to retirees. The few females that were there were either serving drinks behind the counter or together in groups, absorbed in their own little world of fashion, makeup and boyfriends.<p>

In other words, she would stick out like a sore thumb.

Emily was quite tempted to walk back out and return to the hotel. She had no desire to sit among a group of drunk, horny men and be ogled and whistled at. Plus, she didn't want to deal with the paperwork if one or two of them ended up on the floor after passing the 'no hands' boundary; Strauss would have her ass if that happened, and Emily was _not_ going give the Bureau Chief a reason to fire her so soon after coming back.

After much deliberation, however, she decided that as long as she was here, she might as well stay. She had come this far for a reason and she wasn't about to back out now. She would have one drink and then head back- no harm, no foul. Besides, if anyone decided to get cute with her, she wasn't some damsel in distress; she was an FBI agent fully capable of defending herself.

With a deliberate stride in her pace, Emily was so focused on the bar that she didn't see the person practically right next to her doing the same thing. In fact, she didn't notice anything until she was right at the counter and leaned in to tell the bartender what she wanted- at the same moment the other person was doing the same thing.

"Glass of Heineken," both of them said in unison, then turned and looked at each other.

Emily stopped dead, staring in surprise at the man standing not five feet away. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then an amused smirk appeared on his face.

"Well, I must say you've certainly got excellent taste, Agent Prentiss." Scott said.

Emily would have been mortified if she could see the way her mouth opened and closed several times without saying anything. Hell, she _felt_ mortified- mortified that she wasn't able to say anything- at _all_. "Uh... what tastes did you think I had?" She said finally, and then mentally cringed at how lame a response that was.

"I'd no idea. I never got the chance to talk alcohol with you. I believe the last time we spoke, it was about that bomb that went off a few yards away from my face."

Emily looked back at the young red-headed bartender, who was looking back and forth between the two with a confused look on her face. She decided to put the poor girl out of her misery. "Two Heinekens. One on each tab."

The bartender finally focused her vision and gave a nod. "Of course," she said before leaving.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "You know, a couple more seconds and I would have offered to pay for yours."

"No reason to, Mr. Jackson," Emily responded. "Consider it an exchange for you being later than usual."

That stopped him. "Usual?"

She pointed to her watch. "Didn't you say your usual times at the bar were between five and seven?"

He grinned. "So you remembered that, did you?"

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "I thought you told the ER attendant that you were going take it easy for a few days."

"I did. And I planned to."

"But...?"

He shrugged. "Got bored."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're going to be a lot more than just bored if you collapse in the street from overexerting yourself."

"As much as I appreciate your concern for me Agent Prentiss, it's not necessary. I've dealt with a lot worse things in my life than a small bump on the head."

"Do those things include an explosion from ten feet away?"

"Not gonna let that one go, are you?"

"It's the truth, isn't it?"

"I prefer to think of better times in my life. Not that there are that many to speak of."

At that point, the bartender returned with their beers. There was silence for a brief moment, and Scott couldn't help but watch as Emily stared at her glass for several moments without taking a sip. "So why are you here?" He asked.

Emily snorted silently. _Like I'm going to tell him the real reason._ "Just here to kick back and relax with a drink."

"I doubt that."

His immediate answer caused her to look at him sharply. "Excuse me?"

"I doubt you're here for a nice quiet drink to relax."

"And since when did you become the expert on my motives, _Mr._ Jackson?" She put an emphasis on the title, almost to assert some type of authority on him. "What in the hour or less that you and I were in the same space makes you think you know my reasons for anything?"

"People don't come here to kick back and have a drink by themselves, _Agent_ Prentiss," he responded coolly. "They come here to talk, to bullshit, to be part of this atmosphere of noise and booze. A lot of the guys come here hoping they'll score and get laid. Very few succeed. Most of the girls come here in groups hoping to escape being sought after like trophies. Again, few succeed. But whatever they do, they do as part of a movement; part of a group. They're in groups because that's what they enjoy. If you were here to enjoy yourself, you'd be with the rest of your team. Since you're here by yourself, my guess is you're here to escape something- or someone."

Emily's jaw tightened. She fought to not show the man how close to the truth he'd struck. "You're here alone too," she countered.

"_Was,_" he responded with a thin smile. "I'm not anymore."

This time she couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. "Sure, whatever makes you feel better."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Now _there's_ an enticing thought."

"Don't read too much into it," Emily retorted, finally taking a sip of her beer. It tasted cold and bitter on her tongue- just the way she liked it. "You're here to have a drink, I'm here to have a drink. That's all there is to it."

"Whatever you say," Scott shrugged, taking a sip from his own glass. "But if you want my opinion, you look like you're in desperate need to talk to someone. All that moping and all is really just-"

"Excuse me?" Emily turned back towards him, daggers in her eyes. "Moping? What are you talking about?"

"Well, it's fairly obvious to see, isn't it?"

"I'm _not_ moping!"

"Oh, so this is your cheerful, happy-go-lucky side? Remind me never get blown up on one of your bad days."

"How I act on my good days or bad days is none of your business," Emily said coldly.

"I'd agree with you," Scott replied. "If I didn't happen to be involved in the day in question. And today happens to be one of those days."

The look she gave him was so intense, it was a miracle he didn't burst into flame. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a real asshole?"

"I've been called a lot of things over the years, Agent Prentiss. That one's relatively tame."

"It's easy to see why."

"Especially to those who lie to themselves as well as others."

Emily let out a cry of exasperation, picked up her beer and moved to the opposite end of the bar. _Men. _She knew she was getting worked up over nothing, and that normally she would just brush the discussion off. But just like what had happened in the hospital, there was something about Scott Jackson that just _infuriated_ her to no extent. She truly felt like throwing her glass at him and storming out, cursing his name, when she had never felt like doing that to _anyone_. Granted she had met some less than spectacular men in her life, but never had she felt like _this_. She felt frustrated, enraged, intrigued and disgusted all at the same time. Was it even possible to feel so many emotions at once? She never would have believed it before, but now she wasn't so sure.

Emily shook her head and took a deep breath. _There's no reason to get upset._ It was just an immature guy who thought he could get under her skin- nothing she couldn't handle. She would just relax, finish her beer and ignore him; it was as simple as that. She resolved herself to forget all about Scott Jackson and imagine instead a nice hot shower followed by a soft cozy bed. _That_ was something she could look forward to.

Scott watched her move to the other end of the bar and set her glass down, deliberately turning away from him. He paused for a brief moment, then shook his head, turned away and took a sip of beer. _Women._ It seemed to him that no matter what their individual personalities were, all of them were hands down the most difficult creatures to deal with in the world, and Emily Prentiss' strong personality sure as hell made her one of the most unusual and challenging people to talk to he had ever met. It was not a normal circumstance; practically everyone else in her situation had either cursed him out or never spoken to him again. True he had pissed her off, but never had anyone thrown barbs back at him with such ease. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was well practised in the art of snark; combine that with being an FBI agent with probably a few years under her belt and you had yourself a strong woman who almost certainly didn't take shit from anyone. It made him intrigued, curious and even a little bit cautious at the same time.

Scott took another sip as he tried to sort through all these thoughts. _Funny._ Practically his entire life he'd been hoping to meet someone to spar with, verbally and mentally. Now when it seemed he'd finally accomplished that, she turned out to be even more hard-headed than he was. Well, screw it. If she really wanted to be as stony as the Great Wall of China, he saw no reason to-

"What's up, Scottie!"

The unmistakable voice was the only reason Scott was able to brace himself for the hard slap on the back that he received a second later. The loud, obnoxious manner confirmed what he suspected when the large, shit-eating grin belonging to Chris Jordan appeared right next to him. The former football player was wearing a black short-sleeved T-shirt and dark jeans; his wavy black hair, green eyes, iron jaw and shirt-stretching arms made him a magnet for practically every woman who laid eyes on him. "Haven't seen you in a long time!"

Scott gave a dismissive shrug and turned away. "Been busy."

"Still working as a delivery boy, are you?"

"Bicycle courier, yeah. You still calling football games from your couch for free?"

Chris burst into laughter. "Still a comedian!"

"I have my moments," Scott deadpanned.

"I'm just holding out for the right job right now. Economy's been hard, and I'm not going to settle for any old by-the-hour schtick. Man like me deserves the best and only the best!"

"Mmm-hmm," Scott said absently, wondering how the guy could consider watching TV, hitting the gym and going to bars qualified him for a high quality job.

"What d'you mean, 'mmm-hmm'?" Chris demanded. "This is _me_ we're talking about, not some nerd who thought burying his nose in books his whole life would get him somewhere special! I'm going places- big places!"

"Whatever you say."

"That's more like it. Now enough of this boring shit. How about some of them chicks?" Chris grinned as he stared across at the pretty bartender, who made a disgusted face and moved further away to serve other customers. "Bet you a hundred bucks I nail that one within an hour."

"Somehow I don't think she's your type. And anyway, what about Suzy?"

"What about her?"

"Weren't you two together? You know, after you 'persuaded' her to leave me?" Scott replied, the terseness just barely evident in his voice.

Chris let out a boisterous laugh. "C'mon! You're not still mad about _that,_ are you? Think of it as a learning experience! You got to learn what a real man does to hook 'em like fish!"

"So what happened? Suzy got away?"

Chris scoffed. "Hardly. Bitch was a good lay, but hardly a great one. Way too whiny and always wanting to do stuff that bored the shit outta me. I mean come on, what's a man gotta do to keep his woman in line?"

Scott's jaw tensed and his grip on his glass tightened. One of the things that always pissed him off about Chris was the guy's blatant disrespect towards women. He seemed to consider himself God's gift to them, but made no effort to treat them with any kind of respect. He was always one of those guys who would casually refer to them as bitches instead of women, and who then proceeded to use them up and toss them aside without a second thought. Scott had never considered himself to be any kind of feminist- was there really such a thing as a male feminist?- but never in his life would he dream of even thinking of them in such a despicable way. Maybe it was being raised during his teen years by a single mother, he didn't know. Scott didn't think too much of Suzy personally or intellectually, but she was still a human being, not a piece of garbage.

"You tell me," Chris was saying. "What does a man have to do to keep a bitch in line? I'm telling you right now, you give them an inch and they'll take a mile. Besides, what good is being with one chick for a long time? We gotta get out, you know? Spread our seed in as many pussies as we can. I mean, it's not like they don't do the same thing!"

"With an attitude like that, it's a wonder why you're never in a real relationship," Scott said sarcastically; his unwanted companion's attitude was starting to really piss him off.

Chris stared at him. "Well what the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

"Since when did you become a freaking champion of women's rights?"

"Since some hotshot decided that women were more like toys than people."

"What the hell do you want me to say, Scott? That I don't like sleeping with many different women? That I don't enjoy looking at hot chicks not wearing a lot of clothes? Shit, if it was up to you, we'd be like one of those Middle Eastern countries where women can't go anywhere alone and get killed if they show any skin."

"I'm not the one dismissing women as if they're less than human."

At the other end of the bar, Emily gave up all pretence of not listening to the conversation. No one was paying attention to her so it hardly mattered, but for her it was virtually impossible to ignore what was being said. Her beer largely forgotten, she now had turned her full attention on the two men.

"If that's the way you're going to be, then just forget it," Chris growled. "Let us real men enjoy our natural instincts."

"And you're a prime example of that," Scott guessed.

Chris grinned. "Damn straight. At least you're smart enough to recognize it."

"And I'm also smart enough to recognize to real jackass when I see one."

Chris turned to stare at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

"What it means, _Chris_," Scott stated coolly, turning to face him completely, "is that the only one who thinks you're all high and mighty around here is you. You may think you're some type of God in living colour, but you're not. And the real reason why you're always with different women is because they always flee when they realize just what kind of jackass you really are."

Scott could swear he saw Chris' eye twitch. "And just who the fuck do you think you are? You think you're so high and mighty yourself, Scott? Maybe you've forgotten some of the stuff you pulled at NYS!"

"I've made my fair share of mistakes. If you want to find a perfect guy, I'm not going to be it. Yeah, I've pissed a lot of people off, but there's one thing I've never done and that's _degrade_ someone. I've never stabbed anyone in the back and, most of all, _I've never been so ball-less as to treat people like shit and not care one bit about them._"

Across the bar, Emily watched as the two men slowly rose up out of their bar stools, nose-to-nose with each other and quickly decided to intervene. Rising up, she made her way over to them, her hand automatically clutching at her weapon under her jacket. "What's going on here?"

Chris cast a quick glance at her. "Nothing. Just a talk between old friends."

"Oh, there's a talk alright," Scott agreed. "A talk about the biggest bastard in New York."

"Oh, yeah, that's rich! This coming from a guy whose father took off when he found out he married a half-Indian! And yet _I'm_ the bastard!"

Emily saw the look in Scott's eyes and quickly shoved in between them. "Hey, enough!" She shouted, turning to Chris. "I don't know what your problem is, but this isn't the time or place for it! Go on home."

"You wanna be helpful, sunshine?" He said dismissively. "Walk your sweet ass into the kitchen and make me sandwich. Besides, aren't you in the wrong place? Stripper's bar is down the street."

It took virtually all of Emily's self-control and professionalism to stop herself from ploughing her fist into his face. By now the situation had attracted attention, as many patrons were now paying attention to the trio at the counter. Fortunately, so it seemed, they had also attracted the attention of the bartender, who quickly disappeared, presumably to get help.

"Sir, I suggest you back away, calm down and leave."

"Got a chick fighting your battles for you, Scottie?" Chris sneered. "Who's missing their balls now?"

"Why don't you ask Suzy?" Scott retorted. "I'm sure she'll be more than eager to help you look for them. I won't bet on you being successful."

Chris' face turned bright scarlet, and before Emily knew what was happening he had shoved her down hard to the floor, her head smacking against the floor and temporarily stunning her, in an effort to get to the man in front of him.

Scott didn't have much experience fighting, despite his old gym teacher's suggestion of martial arts, but he sure wasn't going to go down easy. As Chris made a move towards him, Scott rammed his fist into his adversary's stomach. Though the move staggered Chis slightly, his rock-hard abs deflected much of the impact and he quickly brushed it off. Scott winced as his hand protested hitting such a hard surface and he barely had time to react before Chris' huge fist slammed right into his jaw, dropping him to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Chris reached out to grab Scott off the floor, intent on pounding the smaller man within an inch of his life, when all of a sudden he found his head slammed against the bar counter, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. "Hey, lady!" He shouted. "What the fuck's your-"

The hold on his arm tightened and Chris let out a cry of pain as the muscles and bone in his limb tensed. A badge was slapped down right in front of his nose. "You see that?" Emily growled in his ear. "That says 'FBI'. Which means technically you just assaulted a federal agent."

"Hey, hey! I didn't assault nobody!"

Emily could see in the back the bartender returning with two large bouncers, pointing out the commotion to them. She leaned in close and murmured lowly into Chris' ear. "You're really lucky I have more important things to do right now. Otherwise if you weren't missing your balls before, you would be in a moment. For the record, the only sandwich I'd ever make a guy like you would be a knuckle sandwich. Now I suggest you get the hell out of here and go home before I find a reason to charge you with a federal crime. Is that understood?"

"Y-yes," came the not-so cocky response.

"Good." She hauled him to his feet. "FBI," she said, showing her badge to the bouncers. "This man was just about to leave. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you helped him to the door- preferably the back one."

"Of course, ma'am," one of the bouncers replied. The two of them took hold of Chris, who was still favouring his arm, and guided him, none too gently, towards the rear exit.

Emily then turned her attention to Scott, who was making a pained effort to get up, clutching his jaw. Bending down, she grabbed hold of him around the torso and helped him stand. "Are you alright?"

Scott turned a rather incredulous look towards her. "Oh, yeah, sure! Apart from feeling like I lost the lower half of my skull, I feel just great! Thanks for asking!"

Emily sighed in exasperation. "You need to go home as well. What's your address?"

"I don't need anyone driving me, I'm fine," he grunted, attempting to remove himself from her grasp.

She tightened her hold as he stumbled slightly. "Look at me," she commanded. When he refused, she said louder, "Look at me, Mr. Jackson."

Scott slowly turned his head and looked her in the eyes. He saw two strong brown orbs staring back into his own, and try as he might he was forced to drop them back down as they bore into his brain. "You've suffered two major blows to the head today. How you've avoided having a concussion or any type of had trauma is beyond me. But one thing you are _not_ going to do is endanger yourself or others while trying to drive."

Scott scoffed. "Forgotten already that I don't have a car, Agent Prentiss?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Is not."

"Is too-" Emily stopped herself when she realized that he was trying to draw her in. Looking at him, she saw his small smirk and rolled her eyes. "Forget it. I'll call a cab."

"You don't have to," the bartender interjected, betraying the fact that she'd been listening in. "We have an agreement with a taxi service that provides free rides to customers. I'm sure you'll find one right outside in the front."

Emily nodded. "Thank you." She dug into her pocket and pulled out several dollar bills which she placed on the counter. "I think that'll cover both tabs. Sorry about the disturbance." Shifting her weight to support Scott, she guided him out the front door; sure enough there was a taxi waiting outside ready to go.

Emily helped him into the back seat. The driver looked in his rear-view mirror. "Where to, sir?"

Scott opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by Emily sliding in beside him. "Uh, excuse me? I don't seem to recall inviting you along for the ride."

"You didn't," she said simply. And that was the truth. It was her duty to help people, and by making sure the man got home she was fulfilling that duty.

Scott's mouth opened and closed several times in a matter she might just have laughed at had the situation not been so serious. Apparently torn between giving another smart ass remark and just letting it go, he eventually decided on the latter and murmured his address to the driver.

Subconsciously, Emily made a careful mental note of it in the back of her mind.

* * *

><p>The drive itself was uneventful as both parties lapsed into silence. When they reached Scott's apartment building, Emily paid the driver, which got a look from Scott. "Uh, technically this was <em>my<em> ride."

"Well, _technically_, you're in no condition to make critical decisions," she retorted.

"I knew where I lived. Isn't that good enough?"

"If you make it to your apartment, we'll see."

Scott grumbled under his breath, which Emily ignored, and the trip up the elevator was equally as quiet as the taxi ride. It was only once they reached his door that the dam was finally broken loose between the two of them.

"Well, thank you _so_ much, Agent Prentiss," Scott said with exaggerated politeness. "I'm so glad you were here to guide me through the dangerous task of taking the elevator up to my apartment."

"If you'd taken the stairs and fallen, it would have been," she replied coolly.

"Uh huh. Is this a typical day at the office for you or am I just a special case?"

"It's a case of being in the right place at the right time, especially when witnesses make stupid decisions."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Stupid decisions?"

"Yeah, that's what I'd call throwing a punch at a much bigger opponent when it's evident you have no fighting experience," Emily shot back.

"It's number two on my 'to-do' list."

"And what's number one?" Emily asked before she could stop herself.

"Telling my boss to go to hell and find a job I can actually look forward to each day."

"What's stopping you?"

Scott chuckled. "The job market isn't so hot for young adults these days."

"That's hardly an excuse," Emily said aggressively.

"Not an excuse, just a fact. Things have changed since your time and I-"

"_Excuse me?_" Emily took a step closer to him. "_My _time? What exactly is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well, are you a recent graduate?"

"Stop avoiding the question. What did you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

"And that's what? That you think I'm _old_ or something?"

"I never said that."

"But you're implying it. Well, I'm not! And what's more, I don't look like it either! And even if I did, what business is it of yours?"

Scott smirked. "Now who's trying to change the subject?"

Emily's mouth fell open, then let out a cry of frustration. "I cannot _believe_ I am standing here arguing with you about _this_! I can't believe I'm still talking to you at all!"

"Well, you're still standing here outside _my_ door," Scott pointed out. "Typically, if you're not leaving, the line is 'may I come in?' Unless, of course, you wanted to check on my well-being throughout the night..."

"What? No! Absolutely not!" Emily said frantically, trying to brush away the tiny, inexplicable voice in the back of her mind pressing her to say the opposite. "I came up here to make sure you got to your place safely. That's all! It was my responsibility to do so."

He shrugged. "Sure, whatever you say. You need time to deal with whatever is on your mind and it has to be pretty big, so your mood is understandable."

"I'm not listening to this anymore," she replied tersely. "Good night, Mr. Jackson."

"Sure," he replied as she turned and began walking away. "But if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

Emily stopped dead and turned back to face him. "Don't be ridiculous."

"The strong, confident FBI agent whose ability to shut down and withdraw destroyed by a bicycle courier," Scott went on with an air of confidence.

She walked back up to him. "First of all, this is _not_ a competition. Secondly, the only special skill you have is to piss people off enough that they want to throw glasses at you, even if one of those people happens to be a federal agent."

He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "And why didn't you do that when you had the chance?" He asked slowly.

Emily was briefly caught off guard and cursed herself for revealing too much. "It would have compromised the bombing case," she said, thinking quickly. "Besides, it would look bad on my record."

"Not to mention my head."

"Don't count on it. A bomb couldn't dent it; I doubt anything can," she retorted, taking an unconscious step towards him against her better judgement.

"Good point. If that happened, it would be a gaping flaw in my otherwise perfect image."

"Well, we can't have that, can we? I can't even begin to imagine the devastating effects it would have on your ego."

Scott gave a small smirk and took a step of his own closer to her. "I think I've gone to great lengths to preserve enough of my ego for you to see, don't you think?"

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Don't get cocky. I'm the one who volunteered to go with you to the hospital and then saved your ass tonight, remember?" She found herself drawing closer to him, so much so that she could now feel the warmth of his breath on her face; a tingle danced down her spine. "And I'm damn good at my job."

He moved up another inch; they were practically nose-to-nose now. "You certainly are."

There was a brief pause, barely lasting a second, both of them staring into the other's eyes- never blinking, never wavering. The moment ended as the two of them leaned in and closed their eyes at the same time; their lips crashed together in a sea of mutual passion. Both mouths moved and danced in harmony, widening and narrowing, matching each other with perfection. Tongues danced over their lips, flickering briefly over each other before retreating. The warm feeling in her stomach exploded and spread without her lower regions as she placed a hand on his shoulder and and pulled herself closer. He responded by placing his hand on the back of her head, drawing the two together, deepening the kiss, as his heart raced and the blood in his body surged south.

The moment lasted for barely five seconds, but for both of them it seemed like hours. For Emily, it was almost like slow motion where her brain didn't catch up with her body until it seemed like they'd been holding each other for a very long time. She abruptly pulled away and stared at him in wide-eyed shock, lifting a finger to touch her lips, almost to see if what she thought had just happened truly had.

"What. The Hell. Was _That_?" Though her words were barely above a whisper, the intensity with which she said them almost made it sound like she was shouting.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't know what the FBI's code for it is, but among us regular civilians, I believe it's called a kiss."

Emily's mouth opened and closed. "It... I..." Scott looked at her expectantly.

"Okay, this means absolutely nothing." She said louder, attempting as much to convince herself as him. "I just..." She abruptly took a step away from him. "I need to... go. And work. We'll contact you if we need any more information." She turned around and began walking deftly towards the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator. However, she couldn't help but look back and was somewhat taken back to see a playful expression on his face. "And stop smirking, damn it!" She hissed with not nearly the authority she tried to project. Of course, this only made the smirk deepen.

Emily turned and hurried down the stairs, trying to put as much distance between her and him as possible. She was afraid that if she slowed down, her legs would automatically take her where the feeling in her stomach wanted to go- right back upstairs.

Scott watched her retreating form, and as he did a sudden feeling he had rarely felt before came over him- regret. He didn't know where it came from or why it had come over him so quickly, but as he watched her disappear from his sight, the feeling prodded at the back of his mind. In fact, he was so focused on it that he almost didn't notice that the blood in his body had remained firmly in the south; embarrassment replacing regret in his mind, he quickly unlocked his door and went inside.

In his haste, he failed to notice the door next to his was slightly open, let alone the knowing smile on the face of its occupant.

**A/N: There you have it! Please review! What do you like? What do you not like? In-depth reviews are appreciated!**

**Slightly abridged dialogue from Mass Effect 2 here. No copyright intended.**

**I wanted to include a part about the whole 'women in the kitchen making sandwiches' joke that seems to be prevalent, especially on YouTube. Speaking as man, I think it's high time that someone spoke out about it; it's disrespectful, it's not funny and the only ones who find it funny are probably guys who can't hook up with women. I get the feeling that Emily, if she were a real person, would react like she did here.**


	10. I-9

**A/N: Just as a note of caution- this chapter does not have a Lemon scene but something similar to it. If that bothers you, feel free to stop reading.**

Scott stopped just inside his apartment, trying to make sense of what had just happened in the last hour. Even though he nearly had his head knocked off by a former football player and it was still ringing a little bit, there was no way he could forget what happened in the last couple of minutes.

In simple terms- he had _kissed_ an FBI agent.

Scott didn't exactly know why and how he ended up kissing Agent Emily Prentiss; one moment, he was trading insults and barbs with her (and, if he could toot his own horn, kicking her well-toned ass) and the next he was locking lips with a woman who not an hour earlier had called him, perhaps deservedly, an asshole.

He could remember the two of them somehow both slowly moving closer to each other. Every wit and and barb that was exchanged had steadily increased the sexual tension between them. It had gotten to the point where Scott was sure she was going to punch him even harder than Chris had. Instead, he found himself playing tickle-the-tonsil with her.

Okay, maybe that was a bit much. In truth, it had only lasted a few seconds. But... the hell with lying- those few seconds had been some of the best he had ever had in his life, certainly when it came to kissing.

When he was with Suzy, kisses were nothing special. She'd pounce on him, tackle him to the bed, play mould-your-mouth with him for a few seconds, then break off and give a big smile that said 'see how good a kisser I am? Alright, enough of that! Let's screw!' The enthusiasm had been there, but the passion sure hadn't.

By contrast, when he'd kissed Emily Prentiss, he felt _passion_. He'd felt fireworks, chemistry. He'd felt it was _real_. He felt like he was kissing a _woman_, not a hormonally-charged teenage girl.

And she _was_ a woman, there was no denying that. Scott wasn't sure why she had become so defensive when she thought he was calling her old; she sure as hell didn't _look_ old. He had rationalized in his mind that she was several years older than he was, maybe even as much as ten, but hardly enough to call her old. In fact, she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life. Hard-headed, but strong, passionate and very attractive.

Scott's mind was abruptly pulled back to reality by the pressure in his lower body. _Bathroom_, his bladder urged. Stripping off his shirt, he walked to the room in question and stood over the toilet, but found, much to his frustration, that relieving himself was impossible; his erection was still rock hard, rendering him unable to piss. Scott waited for several minutes but with the taste of Emily Prentiss' lips still on his own, the blood saw no reason to go anywhere. With a frustrated groan, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the shower, hoping cold water would relax the muscles.

The shock wasn't so great as that of the showers at his old high school, but it was enough to take his mind off the dark-haired federal agent at least for a moment. Scott gave a sigh of relief as his muscles loosened up and his member slowly deflated.

All the same, he wasn't sure why she had had this effect on him. Sure she was beautiful. Sure she was strong. Sure she could match him easily when it came to verbal exchanges. Sure she... damn, come to think of it, she was a pretty amazing woman!

Realistically, however, Scott believed it was probably more a fan-boy fantasy talking, sort of like a student having a crush on a teacher. What kind of FBI agent would get involved with a witness to a crime? It just wasn't supposed to happen. Plus, there was nothing to stop her from arresting him for sexual harassment or something of the kind.

That, of course, would most likely be after she kicked his ass, threw him to the ground and handcuffed him all in the space of a few seconds. She had proven to be able to take down men bigger and stronger than him. A trained federal agent versus a bicycle courier whose idea of a first blow was to punch a guy's abs of steel? Yeah- not much of a contest.

The thought of her arresting him pushed its way into his mind.

Manhandling him.

Handcuffing him.

Damn, that actually wouldn't be a bad way to go!

The shit-eating grin that crossed his face only lasted a few seconds when another throb emanated from his bladder; he looked down and saw the effects of his last line of thought- his penis was aroused again, bigger and harder than ever. He sighed heavily. "Shit."

It took another ten minutes to block all thoughts of Special Agent Emily Prentiss long enough to calm himself down. As he stepped out of the shower towards the toilet he breathed a sigh of relief as the flow of urine started.

After all, it was just sexual tension between himself and a strong woman he knew he could piss off that he was feeling.

_Wasn't it?_

* * *

><p>Emily rapidly closed the door to her hotel room. Breathing heavily from the brisk walk up the stairs, she leaned against it for several moments, trying to collect her thoughts.<p>

She needed to clear her head. She needed to get her mind focused again.

Walking with purpose, she stripped out of her outer clothes and strode into the bathroom. She turned the taps on to the coldest it would go, splashing water over face three times before shutting it off. Taking several deep breaths, she looked up at her reflection in the mirror, trying to sort out what had just happened in the last hour.

She had _kissed_ a witness to a federal crime.

What the hell was wrong with her? How had she allowed that to happen? Why had she kissed him _right back_?

She couldn't imagine a time in her career when she had done anything more unprofessional, inappropriate, unacceptable... what the hell had she been thinking? So much for not giving Strauss a reason to fire her. If word ever got out about what she'd done, she could kiss... _Ugh!_ _That word again!_

Emily shook her head. She needed to refocus her mind, get back in the zone. She needed to be Special Agent Emily Prentiss of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit, not some high school girl who obsessed over every good-looking man she encountered. If she did that, she'd have to be committed to a mental institution.

_But damn it, he **was** pretty good-looking._

"Stop!" She ordered herself out loud. This was ridiculous. She was describing a guy who was the most immature, annoying, hard-headed person she'd ever met- and that was quite an achievement.

Giving her head another shake, she decided what she needed was a cold shower- one that would cleanse both her body and her mind of what had happened during the evening.

Stripping out of her black lace bra and panties, she stepped into the shower and turned the temperature as far to the right as it would go. The sudden shock of ice startled her at first and caused her to cry out, but she soon found it soothing and gave her a distraction to focus on.

_Bastard_. She cursed the man named Scott Jackson. Cursed him for getting on her nerves, in her head. Cursed him for getting past her defences so easily. Cursed him for breaking her down, making her vulnerable and then exploiting it.

She lathered some shampoo in her hair and then rinsed it out, her long black locks hanging down her back. In all likelihood, she thought, the guy was just trying to get into her pants, make her a notch on his belt. He probably had a bet going on with his friends as to who could screw the most women in a week or something. Well, she sure wasn't going to allow herself to be christened as some damn MILF by a guy seeking an easy lay. She was a woman, not a trophy.

_Most girls come to this place in groups to avoid being sought after like trophies_, he had told her. _Few succeed._

Well, she had braved the place alone and succeeded, hadn't she? _Remember that, you arrogant, immature bastard._

Grabbing the body-wash, she lathered it all over her body. Her hands moved across her firm abdomen, tight ass and strong legs- all results of Morgan's gruelling but effective training sessions. She made a mental note to thank him for it.

Her hands travelled back upwards. Her brain intended for her to soap her chest and arms. Something else took control of her muscles, however; they travelled closer and closer together, inching their way upwards, until they eventually reached where her legs began.

Emily gasped.

A bolt of electricity shot through her nether regions, through her stomach and up into her torso. Her heart began racing as though she was in the middle of a run. In her entire life, she had never known her sex to be so sensitive to touch. She felt like she was thirteen years old again, just breaking into puberty and discovering what her new-found hormones were up to. Of course, at that time, 'exploring her body' was placed in the same category as abortion by the local priest- pretty much a one-way ticket straight to Hell. The mere reminder of it brought both regret and thrills as the same time.

Emily's breath caught in her throat as her fingers moved another inch upward. Upward, upward...

She all but cried out as they brushed over her clit. A wave of pleasure so strong flooded through her entire lower body, it was a miracle she didn't climax right there. As she rubbed her fingers back and forth slowly, she closed her eyes. She didn't want to see what was happening; she wanted to imagine it in her head.

Her mind raced faster and faster, the rate of her fingers following suite. Her brain flooded with images; as she began rocking her hips back and forth, she tried to imagine them stimulating her sex. She imagined them teasing the slit, sliding in for just a brief second and then withdrawing before doing it again. She could feel the muscles inside her contract and expand with perfect rhythm, her body teetering on the edge of oblivion.

A new image entered her mind. Another person's fingers moving in rhythm with her hips. A man's fingers... teasing her, pleasuring her. A young face with a small smirk and teasing eyes. A nice face.

Scott Jackson's face...

Emily threw her head back and gave a shriek of pleasure as the climax ripped through her body. Her inner muscles contracted around her fingers, bathing them in warmth. Blood raced throughout her body at a speed faster than a supersonic jet. In all her life, she had _never_ had an orgasm that was as strong as that. It was powerful, mind-blowing...

It was... perfect.

As she came down off her high, Emily's eyes snapped back open and cast downwards; water and vaginal fluid were indistinguishable. The nerves in her body returned to normal; she was suddenly aware of the freezing water pouring over her back and that if she didn't get out soon, she was likely to catch a cold.

Emily turned the water off and hurriedly stepped out, grabbing a towel off the rack to dry off as she moved into the bedroom. It was a damn good thing that the walls in the building were largely soundproof, she thought. She hated having to explain the mysterious screams to Hotch or, worse, Reid.

She finished drying off and slipped into her T-shirt and black and red spotted pyjama bottoms. As she turned out the light and settled down in the bed, she hoped that sleep would come quickly and peacefully to her.

_It's over. You got him out of your head. It wasn't anything- just built up tension. You won't ever have to see him again or worry about what would happen if anyone found out you kissed him_.

Emily didn't allow herself to think about what she truly felt about that kiss.

That if her brain weren't in the way of her heart and stomach, she would do it again in a heartbeat.

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**This chapter, plus the next one is kind of short, but I'm hoping quality wise they make up for it! Again, in-depth reviews are much appreciated!**


	11. I-10

In an unknown location somewhere in New York, three men sat around a large rectangular wooden table in an expensively furnished room. High quality chairs overlooked a large French window on one side while a large, currently inactive fireplace made up most of the other. A red linen rug covered the entire floor. The wall behind the desk was taken up largely by a massive screen. A globe of the world stood on the right side of the desk while papers and folders, all meticulously filed and organized, lay on top of it. An opened bottle of fine French-imported cognac lay on the right side of it, a half-full glass on the left.

Two men sat in front of the desk. On the right was a huge muscular man with blonde, almost white hair cut very short, wearing a leather jacket and jeans. The clothing barely concealed his massive frame, created from steroids and hours of pumping iron at the gym. The chair seemed to protest every movement his 6'5, 255lb body made. Next to him sitting cross-legged was a man with a smaller but definitely sturdy build of 6'1 and 195lbs, wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and light pants. He had closely cropped brown hair and a dark five-o'clock shadow. His eyes moved back and forth in what one might call a paranoid, skittish type of way.

Both of them sat staring at their companion behind the desk who, despite the light in the room, was still largely concealed by shadows. Neither of them knew too much more than what he allowed them to know, which was not much to begin with. A slightly older, but not middle-aged man whose tastes in alcohol and clothing matched his expensive surroundings. Wearing an open-necked shirt and beige jacket with a gold watch, he looked more like Lex Luthor than what he was to known to most people as; if either of his companions thought so, however, neither dared to mention it.

"I don't know why you wanted us here," the bigger man growled. "I thought everything was going good."

"It still is," the man behind the desk replied calmly. "In fact, things are progressing better than we could ever hope to have imagined."

"So what the hell are we doing here?"

"Because I said so."

"You told me we'd be making a difference!" The other man exclaimed, leaning forward. "That everything we're doing matters in the end!"

"And it will."

"Don't play games with me!" The man pointed a finger across the table. "I told you what we needed to do to make people take us seriously! They have to realize that what we're doing is necessary! So far, nothing we've done has accomplished that!"

"You're not being very patient, Shaun."

"There's no time to be patient!" The man named Shaun shouted, slapping his hand on the table. "This entire country is rotting from corruption within and we're wasting time on small insignificant targets!"

The man behind the desk fixed him with a cool look. "_Nothing_ I do is insignificant- and I'd advise you not to make the mistake of thinking so."

"So what's the big master plan?" The bigger man demanded. "Keep sending letter bombs until people don't feel safe in this city?"

"By the time we're finished, people won't feel safe anywhere. Isn't that what you wanted, Rook?"

"I want to show all them cops that they ain't such hot shit as they think they are! They all think they're so high and mighty- give me a few minutes with them and we'll see just how tough they really are!"

The man behind the desk swirled the cognac in his hand. "You'll get your chance. But for the moment we have bigger fish to fry."

"Which is?" Shaun asked.

"The FBI's taken interest; they sent a team from Virginia this morning. I want all efforts refocused on them."

"Well, ain't that something?" The man called Rook smirked. "Our little messages get the attention of the federal government. What a nice surprise!"

"Hardly. This was something I anticipated, even expected. We need to get to the source of the problem and what better way by going through the primary domestic federal agency?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you _wanted_ this to happen!"

The older man took a sip of cognac. "If it works to our advantage, why not embrace it?"

"Shit," Rook muttered. "You're one crazy bastard, you know that?"

"I don't care about all that," Shaun interjected brusquely. "What are we going to do about them?"

The older man rose up out of his chair, glass in one hand and remote control in the other. "For now, nothing but study them." He pressed a button on the remote and a series of images popped up on the screen behind him. Pictures of the BAU team at and near the scene of that morning's bombing popped up- about ten of them in total. "The key to destroying one's enemy is to know them better than they know themselves."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"My sources are gathering information as we speak. By this time in a couple of days, we'll know everything there is to know about them. And that's when we'll initiate our actions."

"Even if we do, that's just one FBI team," Shaun declared. "It'll hardly make a difference and we'll end up bringing the entire FBI down on us in a second."

The older man gave a small smile. "They can't destroy what they can't find. And trust me, it _will_ make a difference."

"Whatever," Rook rumbled. "So long as I get to kill a couple of them."

"You'll get your chance." The man pressed another button and the pictures on the screen blew up and starting filing one after the other like a slide show; two dark-haired men in suits talking with a young woman alongside a police detective; a muscular black man and blonde woman interviewing another black man in company uniform; a dark-haired woman and thin, lanky young man talking to a dishevelled young guy sitting in the back of an ambulance.

"Well, check it out!" Rook leered. "You see them two hot chicks? Since when did the Feds start letting pretty women out into the field?"

"You keep that attitude up and they'll put a bullet in your head before you know what's happening," Shaun retorted. "_Never_ underestimate your enemy; that's the worst mistake you can possibly make!"

Rook snorted. "Sure. And what about the little mistake you made this morning with the timer? Cause that up there didn't look like a Wall Street building."

"That wasn't my mistake!" Shaun shouted heatedly. "I don't know why the package wasn't delivered on time!"

"Wasn't your mistake, huh? That what you said happened in Pakistan too?"

The look that came into Shaun's eyes was so killer that it surely would have preceded murder had the situation not been broken up. "Gentlemen, enough!" The older man declared, raising his voice. "We have enough to deal with right now without getting into petty squabbles like this! Shaun, you're dismissed. I'll let you know what the next move is when we come to it."

"But-"

"That was _not_ a suggestion." Though the man's voice was very quiet, there was no missing the warning lying behind it.

Shaun clenched his jaw and cast a final glare at Rook before standing up and striding purposefully out of the room.

Rook watched him leave before getting up with a grunt. "That guy's more trouble than he's worth. He fucks this up and ruins our plans, I'm killing the son of a bitch myself."

"That won't be necessary," the older man replied while mentally rolling his eyes. _Honestly, why do all the biggest men have to be some of the dumbest?_ "When the time comes, all he'll be thinking about is accomplishing the job."

"He'd better. If he doesn't, he'll be just another failed revolutionary. That ain't gonna do us any good."

"Mmm," the older man said absently. "Don't worry; Shaun's predictable. He'll do what needs to be done. Besides, he's not the one who concerns me."

Rook narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

His companion pointed the remote at the screen. "Our own wild card." He pressed a button.

The pictures were immediately replaced by a live video feed. In it was featured a small, windowless room made entirely of stone. At the far end of it, a sobbing young woman knelt on the floor, chained by her foot to the wall. She was dressed in punk clothing with a black T-shirt that ended just above her midriff, fishnets, miniskirt and Doc Marten boots. Her dirty blonde hair with brown streaks fell over her tear-stained face, the piercings in her lip trembling in unison with the attached body part. Even the large tribal tattoo on both sides of her waist extending to her back seemed to shake in fear. _"Please,"_ she begged in a shaky voice. _"Don't do this..."_

"_The evil that exists in the world must be purged by any means necessary,"_ a male voice said off camera. _"Those who partake in it must be eliminated by those with the strength to fight it."_

"_Please..."_ the woman pleaded, eyes moving back and forth frantically. "_I'm just a hairdresser!"_

"_Those who are guided by dark forces deserve nothing less than the pain and death necessary to cleanse the world of their evil intentions."_ The speaker stepped into the camera shot, staring down mercilessly at his captive. His long dark hair obscured most of his face from view; he spoke unhesitatingly, as if reading from a script. _"Among the worst of these evil-doers are witches who seek to bewitch all men they set their sights on."_

"_I've told you a million times, I'm not a witch! Please, just let me go... I won't tell anyone, I swear!"_

"_And as is demanded by the Mallus Malleficarium, all witches must die, so that their evil cannot contaminate the souls of everyone around them."_

He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out something- a pair of heavy pliers. The girl's eyes widened in fear and she tried frantically to pull herself free from the chain; it didn't budge an inch. _"Please no... no! God, please I'll do anything! Please! Please no!"_

The man grabbed hold of her face and forced her mouth open with his free hand, simultaneously reaching in and grabbing hold of her tongue with the pliers. In one swift motion, he ripped the tongue out of her head. The woman gave a horrifying, agonizing scream of pain and clamped her hands over her mouth; blood gushed between her fingers and started pooling on the floor.

The man held the mangled tongue up close to his face; in the centre, a steel stud could be seen glistening in the light. _"The first step to stopping the spread of evil is to remove their ability to spread their devilish words."_

Carefully laying the appendage and tool aside, he moved behind the girl, his eyes now filled with sadism. _"The second step to stopping the spread of evil is to destroy their fiendish soul and their will to resist..."_

In one curt move he shoved her down onto her face, causing her to sob in pain, and pinned her to the ground. She tried to buck him off, but he was stronger and he outweighed her by at least 50lbs. _"Isn't that right, witch?"_

Simultaneously, one of his hands unzipped his pants while the other yanked down her miniskirt...

The man in the expensive suit abruptly cut the video feed, turning it back to the surveillance videos. Repressing a slight shudder, he downed the rest of his cognac in one gulp. Such things, he thought, were not suitable for viewing, certainly not by a man of his stature and tastes.

"Uh, boss?" Rook asked.

"Yes?"

"Not to question you or anything, but why the hell did you recruit this freak?"

The older man's eyes held no emotion of any kind. "The same reason I recruited our paranoid Irish friend. Because he's useful."

"How? Useful in being a fucked up psycho? This guy doesn't care one bit about our vision! You see what he did to that Latino? He was _disappointed_ the spic died before he chopped off his dick! There's something not right about him, boss. How can he be useful?"

"It's a mutually beneficial exchange; we get rid of people who aren't worth our time and he gets to satisfy his sadistic homicidal delusions. That's good enough."

"If so say so. But I don't know about this."

"I didn't recruit you to think, Rook. Stay focused on the job."

"Got it, boss."

The older man cast a look at his henchman, as if wondering why he was still here. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

Rook opened his mouth to answer that no, he really didn't, but then caught the look in the other man's eyes and quickly understood what it meant. Mumbling something to the affirmative, he turned and left the room.

The older man shook his head and turned back to the screen. _Some days_, he thought, _I wonder why I surround myself with such simple-minded idiots?_ Still, it didn't matter what anyone else said or thought; at the end of it all, he was going to have exactly what he wanted- just like always.

His eyes zoomed in on one of the photos on screen- that of the dark-haired female agent. A smile smile crept over his face; contrary to Rook's unintelligent comments, Shaun had been right about one thing: you never underestimate your oppoent's strength, and this woman was strong. Even in the stills, he could see it in the way she carried herself, the way she moved, the way she turned. In fact, if he didn't know better he would have said he was looking at a work of art.

And damned if she wouldn't be before long.

He poured himself another glass of cognac. "Nice to make your acquaintance, my dear lady," he said, raising the glass in the fashion of a toast towards her. "I look forward to meeting you in person very soon. You'll make an excellent addition to my collection."

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback! As always, in-depth reviews are always appreciated!**


	12. I-11

"Well, we could just write this off as a coincidence," Morgan said as he knelt on the asphalt next to the body, "but I'm not sure I really believe in them anymore."

Hotch looked at the scene in silent agreement. Murder was certainly not foreign to New York City but dumping a body next to the hotel where the team was staying was a bit much, even for the Big Apple.

They had first gotten word about the situation earlier that morning; at around five-thirty, a information technician had pulled into the parking lot and had been heading towards the hotel when he noticed something lying off in the gravelly asphalt about twenty feet away off the main lot. The grey clouds overhead combined with the lack of sunlight at that hour had made him think at first that it was garbage bag, but the way it was positioned made him suspicious and he decided to have a closer look. He soon discovered that it wasn't garbage at all, but the bloodied body of a young woman dressed in punk clothing. He immediately raced to the hotel to call the police; Hotch had been getting an early morning cup of coffee at the same time in the lobby and had immediately called the rest of the team, as well as Detective Brighton.

"What are the odds that a body could be dumped right next to the hotel we happen to be at staying at the day after we arrive?" Emily asked out loud. Reid, who was right next to her, opened his mouth to answer and she abruptly raised a hand and cut him off. "Don't answer that." Reid slowly closed his mouth and gave her a questioning look but thankfully didn't say anything. Emily was in no mood for a brain overload; while the feeling in her stomach had subsided after her shower last night, her subsequent dreams had ranged from throwing heavy objects at Scott Jackson's head to ripping Scott Jackson's shirt off to kissing Scott Jackson. Either way, the young man named Scott Jackson was still very much in her head and it was starting to really grate on her nerves. Her professional training was the only reason she hadn't snapped at Hotch that morning when he called her room- thirty minutes after she had finally dropped off to a dreamless sleep.

"We're already chasing the possibility our bomber could have started off as a killer," Brighton said. "If this is his work, why would go back to simple murder?"

"Opportunistic maybe? Or perhaps the thrill of it was too much to ignore," Rossi suggested. "He did seem to want us to know why he believed she deserved to be killed."

He pointed at the woman's exposed midriff. Carved into her stomach were the words **Exodus 22:18**.

Brighton raised an eyebrow. " Well, I admit I haven't gone to church in quite a while but that sounds awfully like a Bible verse to me."

"It's from the King James version of the Bible- the Book of Exodus, Chapter 22, Verse 18," Reid interjected.

"Which says?"

"_'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to_ _live'."_

Surprisingly, it was Hotch who seemed the most surprised. "Really?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it was a huge factor in the witch hunts that occurred in Europe for centuries as well as those in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692."

Brighton sighed. "Great. So now we have a bomber who also thinks he's doing God's work by killing people associated with the Devil."

"Bombing targets and committing murder up close and personal are two different MO's," Hotch thought aloud. "Even if there's any connection, I doubt the same person is responsible."

"Meaning that you think there really is more than one UnSub?" JJ followed his line of thought. "That would lend credence to the group theory."

"Yeah, but have you ever heard of hate groups operating like this? 'Cause I sure haven't," Morgan replied.

"Do we have any idea who she is?" Emily asked.

"Driver's license in the purse placed next to the body says her name's Bridget Silver, twenty-one years old from Rochester," the detective answered.

"I'll have Garcia check her out further." Morgan pulled out his cellphone and dialled the number. "Garcia, I need you to look into someone. Bridget Silver, ID lists her as living in Rochester."

"_Anything for you my chocolate god. Okay, let's see... here we are! Bridget Silver, twenty-one from Rochester, which you already know so I'll get to the juicy bit. Graduated from John Marshall High School in 2009, arrested twice for shoplifting and drug possession. The second time she was put on probation with the condition that she complete a twelve month long rehab. That was eight months ago, she has since moved back in with her parents and begun applying for an online business degree."_

"Sounds like she was trying to turn her life around." Morgan sighed. It was never easy to make a break from your past, particularly if it was a painful one; he knew that firsthand. To see someone try to make that change but never get the chance to see it through was tough. "We'll need to speak with her parents."

"_Sending you their address now."_

"Appreciate it." A sudden thought struck his mind. "While you're on it, can you go through the blogs of that neo-conservative blogger victim Ryan Howard? His bombing doesn't fit the others and it's been bothering me. Check to see if anything stands out- names, places, anything."

"_That's gonna take a while, but I'll get on it right away. Is there anything else your Electronic Enchantress can do for you today?"_

Morgan grinned. "Not right now Baby Girl, but I'll hit you up with the honey if I do."

"_Now **that's** an enticing thought... I'm going to hold you to that."_

"I'll deliver as promised. Thanks a lot." Hanging up, he repeated the information to the rest of the team. "Look, I don't know yet if this is related to the Ramos death or the bombings," he finished, "but I got a hunch there's more to this than just coincidence."

Hotch nodded. "Alright, we'll follow it up. JJ and Reid, go to the address and interview the parents. Prentiss and Morgan, as soon as the body's taken downtown, get the coroner's report. Rossi, Brighton and I will head back to the station- we'll try to pick up anything we missed yesterday while waiting for Garcia. Any questions?"

No one spoke up. Hotch gave another nod. "Move out."

**A/N: Please review and give me feedback!**

**I know this chapter is short, but I guarantee the next chapter will be much more detailed and interesting.**


	13. I-12

Meredith Silver gently repressed a sob as she held a handkerchief to her lips. Her face seemed to have aged at least ten years in the last five minutes. Her eyes were swimming in unreleased tears.

"Are you… are you sure it's Bridget?" she asked haltingly. She looked back and forth uncertainly, her voice reflecting a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, what she was hearing wasn't true.

Which made their job all the more difficult, JJ thought. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Silver," she replied.

The older woman gave a much more audible sob. Her husband Andrew put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in. His face was haggard and shaken. "How did this happen?"

"That's what we're going to find out," JJ assured him.

"I want to know why," Mr. Silver said, staring at the two agents. "Why would anyone do this to our little girl?"

"When was the last time you saw Bridget?" Reid asked.

"Yesterday." Mr. Silver took a deep breath. "She left for her job… at the hair salon. It must have been around eight-thirty in the morning. God… it feels like it was years ago."

"How did she seem? Distracted? Upset?" JJ asked.

"She was the happiest she'd been in a while. She'd moved back home and was working full-time; it wasn't a very high paying job, but she loved doing it." Mr. Silver managed the barest fraction of a smile for brief second at the memory. "She wanted to help people any way she could."

"She was going to take an online business program," his wife added, her eyes still glistening with tears. "Bridget… she struggled a lot in high school. But she had a passion inside her. She never gave up. When she wanted to do something, God Himself couldn't stop her from doing it. She wanted to go back to school and make something more of herself. And now…" Her lip trembled. "Why? Why would anyone do this to our baby?"

"That's what we're going to find out, Mrs. Silver," JJ said gently. Being a mother herself, she understood completely the pain one goes through when anything bad happens to her child; it was the worst feeling in the world. If something happened to Henry, she didn't know how she'd cope. "Did Bridget mention if she was going anywhere after work? Out with friends maybe?"

"No." It was Mr. Silver who answered, shaking his head. "Bridget always told us where she was going. If she was going to be late, she always called ahead and told us."

"Did she often stay out late?"

"Not a lot, no. Bridget was trying to stay straight. She was just about to start her ninth month in rehab. She wasn't an addict," he added quickly. "Just had some issues with marijuana. She got arrested for it… God, it must have been a year ago. It was enough to set her straight."

"You're sure?" Reid asked.

"I saw her face when we picked her up from the jail, agents," Mr. Silver said seriously. "She looked more scared after an hour in that cell than she ever has in her life."

"Bridget swore to us that she was never going to drink or smoke pot again." Mrs. Silver sat up straighter so she could look both Reid and JJ in the eye. "I believed her then and I have ever since."

The two agents exchanged glances. Both of them had the same thought that there was more to this than met the eye. "So you were okay with her going out with friends?" JJ pressed.

"Not at first. The counsellors at the rehab centre made it clear that the first weeks for recovering users are the most difficult. It's when someone is most likely to relapse. We didn't want to let her out of our sight." She glanced at her husband. "But we realized it wasn't what was best for her. The three of us reached a compromise; we would allow her to have more control over her time outside the house if she agreed to undergo random drug tests once every week. She wasn't happy at first, but she understood and agreed."

"And she passed all of them?"

"With flying colours," Mrs. Silver said firmly, drawing herself up taller.

"Do you know if Bridget had any enemies?" Reid asked. "Someone who might have wanted to hurt her?"

Mr. Silver's mouth tightened. "Yes," he said almost immediately. "Yes, I do."

"Andrew, we shouldn't make random accu-"

"Bullshit," he spat. "There's nothing random about it. You know that as well as I do."

"Mr. Silver?" JJ said, staring directly at the man.

"Her former _boyfriend_." The man literally spat the word. "If you can call him that."

"What would you call him?"

"A no-good, drug dealing little son of a bitch." Mr. Silver drew himself up. "And that's being kind to him."

"What was his name?"

"I don't even really remember. Blair… Billy…"

"Brian," Mrs. Silver interjected. "She said his name was Brian."

"Why do you think he might have wanted to hurt her?" Reid asked.

"'Cause he's the one who got her started on all that crap. Drugs, stealing- Bridget didn't do any of that until she met him."

"You're sure?" JJ prodded.

Mrs Silver wrung her hands. "It's difficult to put into words. Bridget was always a little... edgy. She'd been going through the punk phase since she was fifteen. We didn't like it too much. Call us old fashioned, but we told her we thought it was inappropriate. She didn't agree, and still had the style after she got clean. We weren't thrilled, but we tolerated it as long as we knew what she was doing."

"I take it her ex-boyfriend didn't like that too much."

"Hell no," Mr. Silver said.

"When Bridget got clean, we forbade her from seeing him again," his wife added. "She told us there was no need; she wanted nothing to do with him. But he would still try to talk to her, calling her all the time. When she changed her cell phone number, he called the house."

"How often?"

"Five, six, seven times a day," Mr. Silver replied. "Always trying to get her to come back to him. Finally I got on the phone and told him that if he called again, I'd break every bone in his body."

"Did it work?"

Mr. Silver shrugged. "As far as I know. He didn't call the house again, that much I'm sure of."

"What about her cell phone? Did Bridget say that she received any calls or text messages from Brian after that?"

"No." Mrs. Silver shook her head. "We made sure we were aware of all the calls and messages Bridget got. There were none from him."

Reid leaned forward to look the couple right in the eye. "Can you give us Brian's last name?"

* * *

><p>"Garcia, we need an address on a Brian Lowe," JJ said into her cell when she and Reid were back in the van.<p>

"_Getting right on it, my voluptuous blonde. Okay, let's see... wow, there are a **lot** of Brian Lowes in New York,** but** let me see how many of them live in Rochester... Come on, come on, where are you?... Here! Sending you the address of Rochester's one and only Brian Lowe right now._"

"What about a place of employment?" Reid asked. "Do you have an address for that?"

"_Way ahead of you, Boy Wonder. It's included in the package. Our nefarious ex-beau works at a pawn shop, Limitless Exchanges."_

"We're on it. Thanks Garcia."

* * *

><p>"You ever wish people would just put aside their differences and leave in peace with each other?"<p>

Hotch looked over at Brighton in the passenger seat of the van. The two were parked at the side of the street a couple of blocks from the station, having left Rossi to sort through all the leads.

"People always find to reasons to do the things they do," the former prosecutor replied. "If they didn't we'd be out of a job."

Brighton shrugged. "Yeah, but we could say the same thing about CIA interrogators in Guantanamo Bay if al-Qaeda stopped doing what they did. Would that really be such a bad thing?"

"I'm not saying what we do is all pleasant, but it's necessary. Things could be a lot worse."

The detective sighed and shook his head. "You know, I was naive enough at one point to think moving here would make my job easier."

"Things in the Midwest not as easy as some people think?"

Brighton looked at Hotch. "You caught on to that, did you?"

Hotch smirked. "Accent's pretty hard to miss."

"Yeah, that's when happens when you're born and raised in a town of a thousand people for more than thirty years. Some things never change. Even New York can't change what you pick up in rural Nebraska."

"How long have you been in New York?"

"Five years. And every time I'm called out either to Wall Street or Harlem, I ask myself why I thought this would be a better place to live."

"You get tired of Nebraska?"

"More like I got tired of searching large cornfields for bodies, rapists and serial killers. I started thinking of those cases as 'jungle cases'. It became a running joke in the department; every time we'd get one of those, someone would say 'We got a jungle case! Everyone make sure no one's stalking you'!"

Hotch gave a small amused smile. "Some say New York's a jungle."

"Yeah, but at least it's a jungle where the dangers are out in the open. There was something about the rural atmosphere back there. It was peaceful and quiet; great for relaxing on the weekend, also great for hearing the buzz of underlying tension wherever you went."

"I take it domestic terrorism wasn't a major worry there."

Brighton chuckled. "No, not much to blow up in cattle country. Doesn't mean we didn't get some damn major cases. Racism, unfortunately, is real hard to dig out of some spots. I remember one case about eight years ago. Two married interracial couples killed on the same night. Different parts of town, different murder weapons."

"But a connection," Hotch observed.

"One even a raw rookie would see. A white woman married to a black man whose sister was married to his wife's brother. It took us all about five hours to find out what happened."

"Which was?"

"Neither couple's family liked or approved of the other. Probably the closest thing to the Ku Klux Klan and New Black Panthers as you can get. But they found a common hatred in their sons and daughters marrying each other. Turns out they struck a deal; get rid of said sons and daughters and they'd all try to co-exist. Pity no one asked the couples what they thought of that."

"Sometimes, in the course of case, you get so focused on finding the UnSub you almost lose track of the victims," Hotch replied thoughtfully.

"Yeah. I'd say that was the beginning of the end for me out there. Kicker was when we were trying to track down a serial killer with a fetish for tearing people's faces off."

"Do you catch him?"

Brighton's fists tightened into balls. "Only after he'd killed three schoolkids."

Hotch's mouth formed a thin line; child cases were always the hardest to deal with. He knew that all too well and found himself sympathizing with the detective. "Those never get easier."

"So I told my wife I don't want the kids to grow up surrounded by those kinds of stories. Compared to that town, New York sounded like a damn walk in the park, even with three daughters." He looked over at Hotch. "You got kids?"

"One. A son," Hotch answered non-conversationally. He hoped the detective wouldn't ask about his wife; the subject of Haley was never one he enjoyed talking about, even with his own team.

Thankfully, Brighton didn't press for details. "I just hope we catch the son of a bitch before we have to go knocking on doors and telling parents how their kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You'll get no argument from me on that."

* * *

><p>Morgan and Emily stood in the morgue next to a steel table. Bridget Silver's body lay on it, covered up to just below the neck with a white sheet.<p>

"Horrible," the ME, an Asian woman in her late thirties whose name tag identified her as Jennifer Chao said. "I've seen some brutal cases in my time agents, but this one is right near the top."

"Yeah, I can see that," Emily said, staring down at the body. The face was purple and swollen with bruising. A piece of metal that looked like it might once have been a lip ring was now embedded deep in the lower part of her jaw.

"Someone clearly was pretty pissed off at this girl," Morgan added.

"Pissed off enough to do all this and leave her alive for some time," Dr. Chao said.

That caught both agents' attention. "What do you mean?"

"Cause of death was strangulation. You see around here?" The ME indicated the dark bruising on Bridget Silver's throat. "Whoever did this didn't end it until about half an hour after the beating."

"And the weapon? Emily asked.

"Some kind of ligature, possibly her bra. It's the only piece of clothing we didn't find."

"Could be the UnSub kept it as a trophy," Morgan suggested.

"May not be the only thing he kept," Dr. Chao said grimly. She reached down, delicately took hold on the victim's jaw and opened up her mouth. "Her tongue's been removed and not surgically. Pattern of blood vessels indicates it was ripped out."

"With what?"

Dr. Chao shrugged. "Anything like a pair of pliers. With enough force and a sufficient grip, it wouldn't be too difficult."

Staring into the bloodied dark crevasse that once contained a human appendage, Emily felt her stomach churn. She forced the feeling of bile in her throat back. "What about the writing on her stomach?"

"Definitely postmortem. This guy likes to take his time. There was a space of nearly an hour between the removal of the tongue and the time of death."

"Which was?"

"No more than twelve hours ago."

"So she leaves her job in Rochester and goes to travel back home which is also in Rochester. How the hell does she end up downtown?" Morgan wondered aloud.

"Maybe the place has some special meaning to the UnSub," Emily suggested. "Some type of memory from his past."

"But Ramos wasn't moved downtown, he was killed and left in Albany where he lived and worked," Morgan refuted.

"You think it's a different UnSub?"

"Or something changed for him. Something about the victim that sparked something inside him."

"Yeah, well something sparked enough to make him castrate his last victim. He wasn't able to do that this time. Maybe removing the tongue was his way of compensating."

"Or it could also have been violating her afterwards," Dr. Chao broke in.

"She was raped?" Emily asked.

The ME nodded. "Signs around the vaginal area indicate clear traces of sexual assault. And not just once. This poor girl was assaulted multiple times, likely between each beating."

"Son of a bitch," Morgan swore.

"Any traces of semen?" Emily asked, the possibility of DNA on her mind.

"None. Either your guy used a condom or her birth control killed all them. He may be sadistic but he's not stupid."

"That's what they all say," Morgan retorted. "Right up until you slap the cuffs on 'em and nail their asses to the wall."

* * *

><p>"Who?"<p>

That was the response from Brian Lowe's mouth when JJ told him she and Reid were there to talk to him about Bridget Silver. One word out of his mouth and already the blonde agent strongly disliked him; the cocky, self-important arrogance that literally radiated off the young man was strong enough that the most naive scatterbrained person could feel it.

Brian Lowe had the look of what one might call a 'skater boy' and he sure looked the part. The guy's long brown hair was partly hidden underneath a white backwards baseball cap. He wore a loose-fitting black T-shirt and khaki shorts that hung halfway down his ass, revealing a pair of red and white underwear. His frame was so skinny he almost made Reid look like a bodybuilder, and couldn't have weighed more than 110 lbs soaking wet. An odour that smelled suspiciously like marijuana seemed to to fill the pawn shop, the source coming from behind the counter.

JJ was all-too familiar with this type of guy. It hadn't been so long since she was surrounded by them in high school. Most skaters were relatively decent people but a select few of them, of which she'd definitely include Brian Lowe, were jerks and troublemakers. Unfortunately, it was also the type of guy a girl like Bridget would be drawn to. Going through a rebellious stage in her teenage years, perhaps feeling not so accepted or understood by her more conservative parents, she'd be like fresh meat in a lion's den for someone like Lowe. She'd feel he understood her, being rebellious himself, and he would expect her to do anything for him. JJ knew the moment Bridget decided to think for herself and leave him would be an unacceptable betrayal in Lowe's mind. This made him, the blonde agent believed, a prime murder suspect.

"Bridget Silver," she repeated. "You know, your ex-girlfriend."

Brian flashed a shit-eating grin at her. "Which one?"

"The one you got into drugs and stealing," JJ replied, fighting to control her temper. The guy's attitude was really starting to piss her off. "Unless there were more of those we don't know about."

"Hey, let's get one thing straight," the twenty-one year old said, raising a finger in their faces. "I never _got_ her into anything, okay? She came up with all that stuff on her own."

"She suddenly decided smoking pot and shoplifting was a good idea?" JJ said disbelievingly.

Brian shrugged. "What can I say? Chicks do the craziest stuff."

"And you didn't tell her it wasn't a good idea?" Reid questioned.

"Why? It's a free country, ain't it? People can make their own choices."

The two agents exchanged glances, wondering whether the guy was serious or just stoned. Maybe both. "Just like you chose to call her repeatedly after she broke up with you?" JJ asked.

"It wasn't a break up. Girl got into trouble, needed some time to clear her head. I was just reminding her what she could look forward to afterwards."

"We have a name for that kind of reminder," JJ said. "It's called harassment."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Brian stared at the two in disbelief. "You wanna talk about harassment, why don't you talk to her rents? Especially that psycho father of hers! Last time I tried to talk to Bridget, he threatened to beat the living shit out of me if I ever called again!"

"That's understandable since they said you continued to call her even after she told you she didn't want to talk to you ever again."

"Yeah well, that's crap. Bridget was real messed up. She wasn't thinking clearly, especially not with her rents breathing down her neck. If she knew what was good for her, she would've come back. What the hell's all this about anyway?"

At that moment, Reid's phone beeped, signalling a text message. It was from Morgan.

_BS killed last night between twelve and two._

Reid showed the message to JJ, who then drew herself up and looked at the hostile young man at the counter. To her annoyance, he wasn't even looking at them but was instead fiddling with an old cell phone that looked at least ten years old.

"Where were you last night?" she asked, all niceness dropped now.

"Why do you wanna know?" he replied, not even looking up at them.

"Because we asked. Now answer the question."

He stopped fiddling and looked up. "Hey, you know what, fuck you! You're just a couple of pricks with badges! What the fuck do you know?"

JJ was tempted to haul the little punk in for questioning at the station but was interrupted by Reid, who leaned in real close to Brian's face.

"We know that you have a high disregard for the authority," he started in a voice that was low but surprisingly dangerous. "We know that you're extremely possessive and don't like being told no. We know that you repeatedly tried to contact Bridget when she specifically told you she didn't want to talk to her again."

"What the hell are you-"

"We also know that she was murdered last night."

That stopped Brian dead in his tracks. He looked to and from the agents' faces. "Wha- what?"

"Bridget Silver was murdered last night- right after she was raped and tortured and then dumped like a piece of trash. That's a very strong clue to the identity of the UnSub, Mr. Lowe. Someone who had a lot of anger towards her, probably because she didn't want to come back to him. You know, it's typical of most stalkers; when the object of their focus rejects them, their fantasy world shatters and all that's left is a black empty hole and a huge amount of rage. The stalker becomes obsessed with making the victim pay for their rejection and when they do, it often explodes in one violent episode."

JJ stared at the genius. This was something she had heard about from Rossi but never actually seen; a side of Spencer Reid that gave even the most hardened of UnSubs pause. She had to admit that this side of Reid was impressive- almost scary.

"I didn't have-" Brian tried to say.

"So this is what I think," Reid went on as if the man hadn't spoken at all. "I think you're a prime example of a stalker with an obsession towards a woman who didn't want anything more to do with you. If I was to testify in court whether you'd act violently if this woman rejected you, I'd swear to it under oath. I think if you were pushed far enough, you could have done to her exactly what _was_ done to her. Now whether you actually did that, I can't say right now since you refuse to give us an alibi. Because of that, I'm kind of doubting your innocence. So I suggest you tell us where you were last night between midnight and two."

"Or," JJ added slowly. "you can continue screwing around with us and we can come back with a warrant for both here and your home. But if that happens, we're also going to bring you downtown and have you undergo a urine test for any narcotics in your system." She leaned in close. "And I promise you it's not going to be like at the doctor's where you go in private, Brian."

"Wait." Brian swallowed and nervously fumbled with the phone for a few seconds before putting it down. "Okay look... I was with some friends last night. We were all at my place. We were..." He paused.

"Smoking marijuana?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"What are there names?" Reid asked.

"Aw look man, come on, I can't tell you that! They'll know I ratted them out."

"You're under suspicion for murder, Mr. Lowe," JJ said. "What your friends think is irrelevant."

"Crap. Um, okay, fine. Let me just write them down." Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, he scrawled onto it several names before handing it over. "Just don't tell them it was me, okay?"

"We can't make guarantees," Reid said simply. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Lowe."

Back outside, Reid could feel JJ's eyes on him as they walked. Looking over, he saw her staring at him. "What?"

"And I thought you were supposed to be the one who didn't intimidate suspects," she said with a smirk.

"That wasn't intimidation, that was appealing to a suspect's natural instinct of self-preservation," he protested.

She shrugged. "Whatever it was, it was impressive. Who do I thank for teaching it to you- Rossi or Morgan?"

"Why is it so difficult to imagine I just used my own natural instincts?"

She shook her head. "Reid, one day, you're going to sweep a woman off her feet with that attitude." Catching the confused look on his face, she changed the subject. "Lowe's lucky we didn't demand a drug test. He'd probably piss an entire marijuana farm."

"Doesn't seem like the kind of person to plan a series of bomb attacks. He fits the profile for the Silver murder, but not the bomber's."

JJ nodded as she opened up the driver's door of the van. The idea that a stoner like Brian Lowe could be responsible for a series of coordinated bombings was improbable. Not impossible, but it was a huge long-shot. The profile just didn't fit. "At any rate, we'd better check his alibi. Make sure he actually was where he says he was. He'd better hope his friends remember enough of last night to clear him."

* * *

><p>Scott let out an exasperated groan as he all but crashed into a chair.<p>

People were afforded all kinds of days off for a lot of reasons. The flu. A broken arm. Maternity leave. Paternity leave. Weddings. Divorces. Impossibility to work with colleagues.

Yet terrorism seemed to be far down on that list. At least when it came to Empire Deliveries.

Scott suspected that most bosses would be relatively sympathetic if their employee almost got blown up by a bomb. Most bosses wouldn't call said employee at five o'clock in the morning and bark the address of the temporary building they'd be using, then tell them to be their in half an hour. Most bosses might ask how they're doing.

George Dickie was not 'most bosses'. His idea of checking on his employees' well-being was demanding what they were still doing in bed at 5 am. There were packages to be delivered and a little thing like a bomb wasn't going to cut it as an excuse to stay home, no siree.

Scott checked his watch, then stared. It was almost three-thirty. How the hell had it gotten so late? He'd only had five packages to deliver. Sure the addresses were nowhere near each other and he was a little slower on his bike than normal but _three-thirty_?

He was so busy staring he didn't notice the arrival of another person by his side. "On a schedule?" Earl asked.

Scott looked up at him. "Not my own."

"You got a hot date or something?"

Scott snorted. "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Some hotshot exec in Long Island might need a packet of stamps delivered at midnight. The world could end and we'd be the last to hear about it; it might 'disrupt out schedule'," he said, making air quotes around the words he'd heard from the boss that morning. He looked up to see his colleague staring at him. "What?"

"Man, no offence but you look like crap," Earl said dryly.

Scott let out a breath. "Thanks. I feel like crap."

"Tough night?"

"You could say that."

"You get any sleep?"

Scott looked at him with half-closed eyes. "What do you think?"

Earl shook his head. "I know you're a trooper and all, but maybe you should just have told the boss to shove it. No man is all normal just a day after having a bomb go up in his face."

"Mm hmm," Scott murmured absently. To be honest, the bomb was only part of the reason for his insomnia. He'd spent the entire night with a tornado going through his head. Thoughts of how close he'd come to dying. The dull ache in his head and in his jaw. And... other thoughts. He pushed those ones away. "I'm fine."

"Whatever, man. But you want my opinion?" Earl looked straight at him. "You'd do best to go home, grab some aspirin and hit your bed until tomorrow morning. 'Cause another night of this and you'll look like the living dead."

After Earl's departure, Scott leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The living dead? He already felt like a dead man walking. Or would that be dead man biking? Either way, he had to admit the suggestion of aspirin and the comfort of his own bed sounded damn good right now.

_Ring, ring ring!_

He opened his eyes slowly. _Especially with the cell phone turned off._ Repressing a sigh, he removed the offending device from his pocket and stared at the screen.

**SUZY**. Scott narrowed his eyes. Why would she call him? He pressed the receive button. "Hello?"

"_Scott? Thank God I caught you!"_

"Suzy? What is it? Are you alright?"

"_Huh? Oh yeah, fine. I just wanted to call you and... yeah, just wanted to call you."_ She sounded even more ditzy than he remembered.

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda busy at work right now, Suzy. Maybe I could call you back later?"

"_Can I come over tonight?"_

That caught him off guard. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"_Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase ?"_ she whined. _"I can't bare being alone tonight. It's so... dorky! Ever since Chris left me, I've been going crazy! I haven't been this lonely since junior high! I need you, Scott!"_

It was the most pathetic display of imploring Scott had ever heard in his life. The girl who'd cheated on him was suddenly crying for him? What bull. Still, he was curious to know exactly how she ended up in this sorry state. With a deep breath, he said, "What happened with you and him?"

"_It was all his fault!"_ she said immediately. _"I thought we were going great until one day I came home to find him in bed with either two or three other girls! I asked him what the fuck he was doing and he said something about... 'the need to branch out', whatever that means."_

That definitely sounded like Chris. "Look Suzy, I'm sorry that happened, really I am. But I don't think you should come over tonight."

"_Why?"_ she demanded as though he had just cured cancer and was refusing to reveal to anyone how he did it. _"I want to come over tonight! Why don't you want me?"_

The small bit of sympathy he felt for her quickly eroded. _Why don't I want her_? Was she really that forgetful? "Are you kidding?" he asked incredulously. "The last time we were together, you started playing 'suck a meat Popsicle' with Chris on the sidelines."

"_I made a mistake!"_ she replied defensively. _"That doesn't mean you can hold it over me!"_

"A mistake," he repeated. "And how many times did you make this 'mistake'? How many times did you 'accidentally' tell him what he needed to drink more of to give you a sweet treat?" He knew he was pushing the boundaries of being a total asshole, but frankly he didn't care. Her attitude of I-couldn't-care-less was really starting to piss him off. The stress of the last twenty-four hours and lack of sleep sure didn't help.

"_I knew you'd be this way,"_ she said coldly. _"Chris told me you were a bastard and he was right. I just never realized you were a dickless bastard."_

"Hold on a second. Chris was right?"

"_Yeah. And now I know where to go if I want a **real** man. Chris told me he's always open to me coming back if I want one. It's good 'cause I know where **not** to find one!"_

"Suzy," Scott said in exasperation, "in case you don't know, let me fill you in: Chris _cheated_ on you. You know, the same thing you did to me? That means he doesn't give a damn about you. He's probably got a girl in every neighbourhood in New York."

"_He's still a great guy!"_

"_How?_" Scott demanded. "What makes an unfaithful bastard so great?"

"_Because he knows how to please a woman like no one else can,"_ she replied calculatingly, as though she'd repeated this to herself a hundred times. _"He knows just what to say to make a girl feel special. He's got muscles in places you still don't even have **places**. And he never says no when I need attention."_

"That doesn't make him special. That makes him good at picking up women and letting them go when he doesn't want them anymore."

"_Yeah well, I don't care what you think. I thought you could be a little bit more sympathetic and show me that you're actually worth a damn. But I don't need you and I never will."_

"Good thing," Scott replied coolly. "Because as far as I'm concerned, you need a patsy of a guy to look after you twenty-four seven. And I sure as hell ain't that guy. Goodbye, Suzy."

He abruptly cut the call. Then immediately he went to his menu and selected her number from his contact list. There was no hesitation as he hit the 'delete' button.

Sliding the phone back in his pocket, Scott released a pent-up breath. There was no way, he thought, in the deepest circles of _hell_ that this day could possibly get any worse.

"**JACKSON**!"

Of course, he'd been wrong before.

He turned to see Mr. Dickie staring furiously at him, hands on hips, his eyes glaring almost comically behind his thick glasses. "In my office, now!"

Scott groaned internally. This couldn't be good.

He got up and followed the boss into the room that had been set up as his 'office'. Technically it was about half the size of his old office and contained nothing more than a desk and one chair. Still, to Dickie, it was a kingdom and he was the king. Scott supposed that was a fair assessment; he certainly had the look of someone who sat around on a throne all day.

Dickie forcefully closed the door behind him. "Well?" he demanded.

Scott stared back at him. "Well what, Mr. Dickie?"

"You mind explaining why it took you _ten hours_ to deliver five packages?"

Scott hesitated. What could he say? Truth was he hadn't even known what time it was until a few minutes ago, but he doubted the manager would believe that.

"Well you see sir, all of them were in different parts of the city and-"

"Don't give me that crap!" Dickie interrupted. "A raw rookie wouldn't use that as an excuse! Hell, _I_ could have done it half the time!"

_Provided you didn't keel over from a heart attack_, Scott thought.

"I pay you to do a job, Jackson, not fool around on your phone! If you can't do it, I've got plenty of other employees here that would be happy to earn your paycheck!"

Scott felt the muscles in his jaw clench ever so slightly. "With all due respect Mr. Dickie, those other employees didn't have a bomb go off in front of them yesterday."

"There you go, always an excuse!" Dickie shook his head. "There's never a job you young people won't give an excuse for. You know what the biggest thing young workers have in common today? _Laziness_! And you are without question the laziest worker I've ever employed! In my day..."

Scott felt the blood in his ears pumping; it was so loud it almost completely blocked out the sound of his boss' voice. His blood pressure as well as his temper was starting to go dangerously high. He was suddenly aware that his hands had curled up into fists at his side and quickly placed them behind his back. The temptation to put one of them in the manager's face was growing far too tempting.

"...haven't got _half_ the work ethic I had!" Dickie was still shouting. "Nowadays all young people expect to reach out and get everything handed to them! Well, I got news for you! You ain't getting nothing from me! Not until you start doing your job properly! And if you don't like it, you can go whining and crying back to your mommy who raised such a lazy-ass!"

Scott's eyes snapped dead on his boss'. That was it- _now_ he was pissed.

"My mother's _dead_. Don't talk like you knew anything about her," he snapped in a very unprofessional tone that he couldn't care less about.

Dickie turned redder. "How dare you-"

"No. How dare _you_?" Scott felt like the plug had been pulled on his mental censor. Everything he'd ever thought or wanted to say to the short, squat pig of a man that stood in front of him was now fighting to get out. "You think that just 'cause you're the boss here, that means you can say whatever you want _whenever_ you want and no one can do anything about it. You've treated employees like crap and you expect them to just bow down and kiss your ass. Well guess what? You're not gonna get it from me!"

"Who do you think you are, some kind of big _hotshot_?" Dickie shouted.

"I'm not the one who thinks he's a hotshot!" Scott responded.

"You never take anything seriously, that's the problem!"

"No, you know what the problem is?" Scott said, his voice rising with every word. "You're a self-absorbed tyrant who's impossible to work for! _You've have it out for me for SIX YEARS!_"

"Oh yeah?" Dickie shouted. "Well, let me relieve you of your burden. You're fired!"

The impact of the statement hit Scott like a high-powered rifle shot; it didn't register for a few seconds. When it did, it hardly seemed real. "Are you. Freaking. _Kidding me?_" he said incredulously, his voice cracking at the end.

"Absolutely not!"

"After everything I've done, you're just gonna let me go like a piece of trash?"

"I'm not letting you go." Dickie's veins were literally popping out of his neck. "I'm throwing you out on your lazy ass! Now get the hell out of here!"

Scott stared at him for a moment. He was pretty sure he was just as red as his now ex-boss. A voice in his brain was urging him to raise his fist and introduce it to Dickie's fat face. It had been growing stronger every second of being in the office. But another voice was telling him not do it. An assault charge wouldn't look too good on his resume when he got out of jail. Strangely enough, the strongest emotion that he felt right now was not anger, but relief.

He stared right at his former boss, raised his hands and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "_Fine_."

As he turned and opened the door, he noticed a lot of people were staring at the office in shock. Some looked embarrassed and quickly turned away. Others stared at him. Obviously the office hadn't been soundproofed.

Looking out at the crowd, Scott felt the inclination to say something else. It was something he'd dreamed about saying to Dickie for most of the last six years but had held back. Saying it would have meant the end of his job and his paycheck.

Well, those were already out the window. Which meant there was nothing holding it back now.

In the doorway, Scott slowly turned to face the manager, who was now looking like a live pig sweating on a barbeque. He pointed a finger at the man and said the words he'd been withholding for six years, just loud enough for everyone gathered around to hear.

"Go fuck yourself."

He turned and closed the door behind him, cutting off Dickie's look of shock and indignant sputtering. He began walking to the front exit, passing by his equally shocked and gasping former co-workers. He could hear Earl calling to him from somewhere in the crowd but didn't stop or turn around to acknowledge him.

As he strode out the door and began walking along the sidewalk, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps followed by a familiar female voice. "Scott!" He didn't turn around.

The footsteps turned into running. "Scott!"

A hand caught him by the shoulder and forced him to turn around. Celeste stood there, staring at him. "What the hell was _that_?!" she demanded.

He looked back at her with a blank expression. "Thought it was pretty self-explanatory."

"You told the manager of the company to go fuck himself?" she repeated incredulously.

"Didn't stutter, did I?"

"_Why_?"

"'Cause I've been meaning to and it seemed the best time. I mean, he just fired me. It's not like he can do that again, right?"

"Why'd he fire you?" she asked. "Was it because you took longer than usual this morning? I'll go and explain that you're-"

"Recovering from a bomb blast?" Scott finished. "Don't waste your time. I already told him and it didn't make a difference. Come on, Celeste, you know he doesn't care about excuses. He only cares about how much money he can make while belittling those who work their asses off to make it for him."

"But it's totally not fair! There was no good reason to fire you!" She stood up straighter, an air of defiance in her face. "I'm gonna go back and demand that he rehire you! I'm sure Earl will back you up too!"

"No." He shook his head.

She stared at him. "_No?_"

"No?"

"But you need this job!"

"I didn't _need _it. I had it. Dickie actually did me a favour. I couldn't stand being around him anymore. Besides, I've had enough. No disrespect to you or any of the other couriers Celeste, but I wouldn't go back there if you paid me a million dollars."

Celeste shook her head. "Look, you're just angry and upset about this. It's totally understandable. You just need a little break, that's all." She looked at him with a slightly hopeful look in her eyes. "Maybe... I could come over tonight and we could go out for dinner or something?"

Scott sighed. "Thanks Cel, but tonight I don't think I'm gonna be in the mood for any company other than Jack Daniels'."

Her face fell. "Oh," she replied quietly.

"Look, I appreciate the offer," he added. "But tonight is not gonna be a night you'll want to be with me. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" He gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for being a great friend."

Scott passed by her and continued walking. He knew he shouldn't have been so dismissive to her, but he was still not fully over his anger. Celeste was a great girl but he wasn't in the mood to hang out with friends while raging about his ex-boss.

Truth be told, the idea of hanging out with her didn't hold a place in his mind for very long. As he walked towards the subway, there was a nagging voice in the back of his mind- one that told him that despite everything, he _did_ want company tonight.

The thought of Celeste faded from his mind, and was quickly replaced with another one.

That of a strong, beautiful woman with long black hair.

**A/N: FINALLY! Damn, that took a while. Sorry for the wait! Hope you enjoyed it! Please review!**

**An important note: due to the 'new' rules surrounding M-rated stories on this site, I'm going to have to water down some of the content in this story a little bit- particularly when it comes to 'lemons'. I'm hoping it won't be a whole lot and I'll try to leave as much content in as I can.**


	14. I-13

JJ and Reid walked into the main conference room that had been set up for them at the police station. "Brian Lowe's in the clear," the blonde agent announced to the others who were already gathered inside. "His friends confirm he never left them between ten and three last night."

"Not unexpected," Rossi said. "If he was feeling anger towards the victim, it would have come out in a violent, explosive rage- not meticulous, sadistic torture over a longer period of time."

"And I doubt he's smart enough to carry out a bombing campaign like this," Morgan added.

"Which means we're back to square one with no suspects and no proof these are even connected," Brighton sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Not necessarily," Reid remarked, going up to the board where all the facts and people of interest they knew about were posted. "We first theorized that these attacks were the work of a small extremist group. What's to say that isn't still the case?"

"A bomber who likes to partner up with sex killers? That's a new one."

"I don't think it's a partnership, I think it's an association of convenience."

"What do you mean?"

"Typically in serial crime cases where there's more than one UnSub, one member of the partnership will exert dominance over the other. Because of this, though the crimes will seem similar in nature, there'll be subtle differences in the execution. But with this one, the crimes are so radically different that it seems unlikely that one single person is responsible for all of them. One is based on total destruction with a much wider scope of victims while the other is based on the torture and humiliation of individual targets."

"So we're looking for at least two UnSubs who may only work together in the barest sense of the word," Emily suggested.

"Possibly more," Reid explained. "The nature of the bombings suggests the one actually carrying out the attacks is more or less a knight in a chess game, directed where and when to strike but lacking in the actual planning and individual direction. The UnSub carrying out the individual killings is likely viewed as more or less a pawn, probably used more as a distraction or possibly to fulfil a different kind of attack on what they view as the degradation of American society."

"And they're being directed by a king," Hotch followed.

"Or queen," Rossi pointed out. "I've known a few women in my career with the ability to exude that kind of power and control."

"And how many of those are ex-wives, Dave?" Emily asked.

"One or two," he admitted, unable to hold back a slight chuckle.

"What about the signatures for the packages dropped off yesterday morning? Anything from that?" Hotch asked, directing the question towards Brighton.

The detective shook his head. "Checked. All the names are people working for legit companies. None of them have so much as a parking ticket."

"So where do we start looking?" JJ asked.

"Hard to say," Reid admitted. He turned back to the board, studying it for clues.

"Finding one UnSub could lead to the others," Morgan said.

"Yeah, but where to start?" Emily replied. "We still don't have a clear picture of who we're looking for. All we have right now is that they're likely a far-right extremist group."

"Which operates in the shadows and leaves no message or way to track them," JJ added.

"I got a way to track 'em," Brighton said aggressively. "How about compile a list of all the known anti-government extremists in New York and haul them in one by one?"

Hotch shook his head. "The net is far too wide for a broad search like that. It would take too long. Plus, it might tip them off and cause them to go underground. No, we need a more discreet strategy."

"With all due respect, Agent Hotchner, I think the chance of being discreet is shot to hell. New York hasn't been the same since 9/11. Every day since this started, there's a near mass panic somewhere. The department's doing everything possible to keep the city from erupting over into a powder keg. The media's having a field day. People are asking why we're not doing more to keep them safe. Every day it's something different. 'What progress have you made? Why haven't you taken these steps? How do I know the next place I go to won't be blown sky-high?' They're scared and they want answers, and I sure as hell don't blame them. We gotta do something now."

The FBI agents may know how to track down criminals like this, Brighton thought, but he knew how New Yorkers would react. More importantly, he knew how the media would react. The detective could count on one hand the number of reporters in this city that he could truly trust not to whip up mass hysteria with this story. It was a list to which he didn't add very often, and with good reason. One of his first cases in New York had to do with a young Muslim woman who'd been killed in a car crash. Right from the start, it was clear that it was not an accident; the marks on the back of the victims' vehicle indicated a hit-and-run had occurred. There was immediate speculation about what had happened, and suspicion soon followed that it may have been a supposed 'honour killing'.

The case seemed to have all its trademarks; the woman came from a very traditional, conservative Islamic family, all of whom were unhappy at her embrace of many Western customs, including wearing revealing clothing, going to parties, drinking alcohol and meeting men. Theories on what happened grew first on the Internet, then in letters to newspaper editors, and finally on the front page of the papers themselves. Self-appointed 'experts' on the subjects appeared for both sides on every known TV station, taking shots at each other and calling people on the other side un-American. It turned out that the woman had been run off the road by a man who had been racing to get to work on time, and that religion had played absolutely no factor in it whatsoever. But the damage had been done, and for weeks after the incident, the press was alive with so-called 'facts' provided by 'experts' -most of which had no credible background whatsoever- on every subject even remotely related to it. Brighton had vowed after that that any reporter he dealt with would have to build up his trust before they got anywhere _near_ a sliver of valuable information. So far, that list remained extremely short since he was not the type of man to trust easily.

"I understand your concerns, but going off on a witch hunt isn't the answer," Hotch replied.

"So what do you suggest?"

"Our UnSub has to be rattled by our presence here. It's likely the reason he chose to drop Bridget Silver's body right by our hotel. His planned MO has likely been interrupted; he'll be thrown off base and more likely to make a mistake."

"So what, we wait for him to kill someone else and leave more evidence at the crime scene?" Brighton said incredulously. He could hardly believe his ears; the supposed best in the world at catching the worst criminals was suggesting they _wait_ until someone else got killed?

"We'll take all the necessary precautions we can, but I don't think we have enough for a profile."

"What else do you need?"

"Something that tells us exactly what he's looking for," Morgan answered, crossing his arms. "What do we know about him? That he's killing off people he believes need to be killed either because of what they do or how they look. That's not much to go on."

"And we have to remember it's also likely he's not working alone," Emily added. "There are large discrepancies between these crimes and the bombings. It may very well be different UnSubs who may or may not be connected. The only way to know for sure is to track one of them down."

"And how do we do that?" Brighton demanded impatiently, resisting the urge to treat the agents as he would an uncooperative suspect.

"We go through everything we've learned so far," Rossi said. "We pour over every piece of information, send anything useful to Garcia and come up with an accurate profile."

"In the meantime, make sure to have as many officers as you can on their guard. Tell them to be on the lookout for anything that seems like it may be connected to the case. And make sure they're well-prepared; I wouldn't be surprised if our UnSubs begin to view us as legitimate targets," Hotch warned.

"They'll be on their guard, trust me." Brighton subconsciously felt for the pistol at his side, taking comfort in feeling it in his hand. It had saved his life on more than one occasion, and he'd be damned if any of the men or women in the NYPD he worked with would become casualties by these bastards.

"We'd better work fast." Reid's voice caught almost everyone in the room off guard; the genius had been as quiet and still as a tombstone, staring at the board, and many people had forgotten he was there.

He looked towards the group now. "I'm 95.8 per cent sure that our UnSub is going to strike again in the next twenty-four hours." No one bothered to ask him where he got that number. "Our presence is an unexpected factor for this UnSub. When taken out of their element, they try to make up for it as quickly as possible to reassert control. He's more likely to make a mistake. That's the good news."

A momentary pause followed. Everyone glanced from person to person.

It was Emily who asked the question on everyone's mind. "What's the bad news?"

"Now that he's out of his element, he may try for something bolder."

"Meaning?" JJ asked.

"There are 8.3 million people in New York City. And in his mind, each and every one of them may very well be legitimate targets."

**A/N: I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!**

**I apologize for making everyone wait as long as I did for this update. No, this story has not been abandoned. I have had a HELL of a lot of stuff to do, and now I've finally had the opportunity to continue it. **

**This chapter's short, I know, but I promise the next one will be VERY interesting! I'll do my best to get it up much quicker than the last time.**

**For those of you just discovering this story or who have not abandoned it, drop me a review. It's really motivational, even if it's nothing but constructive criticism. **


	15. I-14

**A/N: I'm happy readers are still invested in this story, even after more than half a year's hiatus.**

**A/N: The High Incident Bandits, Larry Phillips Jr. and Emil Matasareanu, were a pair of serial bank robbers in California most known for their involvement in the infamous North Hollywood shootout on February 28, 1997.**

**A/N: Reference to the 1994 film **_**The Crow**_**.**

**A/N: 'Reaganist' refers to Ronald Reagan, who was U.S. President from 1981-1989.**

**A/N: Waterboarding is a process where a person is strapped down with a cloth held over their face while water is poured over it, simulating drowning. It's been a controversial tactic used by the Central Intelligence Agency since 9/11 to extract information from suspected terrorists. Many people consider it torture.**

**A/N: All information of Lashkar-e-Taiba comes Wikipedia**

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

A thumb bent down and clicked the safety off, followed immediately by clicking it on again. It then pressed down on the safety again, and repeated the process.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

_Click. Click. Click._

Shaun sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of a large round table. Unlike the plush comfort of the rest of his host's residence, there was no warmth or comfort in the air. In fact, down here in this underground room that hosted little more than the table, a few more chairs and a single light hanging from the ceiling, there was nothing but the cold damp air around him. This was the type of air that sent shivers down the spines of the average person and made them draw their clothes tighter around them- uncomfortable to say the least.

Shaun could give two shits about that. He was used to being uncomfortable. He'd experienced it all his life. Trained for it, _lived _it. He'd been in worse places than this. _Much_ worse.

From the time he was a small boy, Shaun's life had been devoid of many of the comforts many people take for granted. It wasn't the way he'd chosen to live- it was the way he _had_ to.

Because he didn't know how to live any other way.

_Click. Click. Click._

Growing up in the incorporated village of Penn Yan, New York, about 70 miles southwest of Syracuse, Shaun's world had largely been influenced by the small community around him. His grandparents had raised him since birth after his mother, just sixteen years old at the time, gave him up. Shaun had no idea who his father was and to hear his grandfather tell it, neither did anyone else. In some of his less sober moments, the old man had rambled that Shaun had been conceived during a drug-fueled orgy involving six members of a high school basketball team. When he asked his grandmother whether that was true, she refused to answer, saying that some things were too shameful to talk about.

So yes, things hadn't started easily for Shaun. Nor had they gotten easier.

What he quickly learned about the community was that everyone did everything exactly the same- the traditional American way of living that had been the standard for every US city just a few decades ago. With a population of barely over 5000 that was more than 95% white, the whole notion of living with a variety of people was never an option for him. His life was dominated by the community's unspoken rules of what was the right way to live and the written-in-stone rules lay down at home.

_Home._ That had never really been home though. It was preparation for what lay ahead of him- the path he was destined to take.

Shaun had been a poor student in school, never able to achieve much higher than C's and D's in his classes, much to the disappointment of his grandparents. His grandfather, an Air Force captain during the Korean War took particular offence to his academic record and frequently berated him, saying he was a loser who'd never amount to anything. When a seventeen-year-old Shaun finally tried to stand up to the old man, the bastard took off his belt and whacked him across the face with it. Tempers exploded and the confrontation culminated with Shaun punching his grandfather in the face and leaving the house for good. Though later arrested for assault, the charges were dropped after his grandmother, wanting to avoid ruining the family's name in the small community, convinced her husband to drop them. Shaun left Penn Yan for good shortly after and never contacted them again.

_Click. Click. Click._

If there was one thing his son of bitch grandfather had taught him, however, it was duty to his country. Shaun was barely nineteen when 9/11 happened. He remembered watching the World Trade Centre on fire on TV, watching people jump to their deaths to escape being burned alive, and finally the towers come down before his eyes. His awe at the devastation quickly turned to anger and rage, and the desire to hurt the people responsible caused him to enlist in the Army. In the discipline of a military structure, he had thrived, excelling in marksmanship and survival techniques. Over the years, he'd served three tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan and racked up kill counts higher than any other soldier in his unit. His dedication and skill impressed his commanding officer enough to recommend him for the Ranger program, the Army's elite first strike force. Shaun was accepted, exceled and quickly rose through the ranks. Before long, he was put in command of his own team.

Their first assignment had been a very special mission- one that had never left his mind even after-

"Hey! Psycho Man! Watch where you point that pea-shooter!"

His thoughts interrupted, Shaun turned towards his companion beside him at the table, Carl Reinhardt. Reinhardt was a tall, lanky, thirty-one year old felon from Los Angeles with wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His Aryan California surfer-boy look disguised very well his violent tendencies; Shaun was aware the man was wanted in at least six states for bank robbery, kidnapping and murder. Reinhardt's tactic was simple; he'd enter a bank carrying an assault rifle - usually an AK-47, the same type used by the High Incident Bandits, whom Carl apparently idolized, in California in the mid-1990s - fire numerous rounds into the ceiling and demand a large amount of money. If the teller wasn't quick enough or someone did something he didn't like, he'd kill them without the slightest hesitation, regardless of whether it was a pregnant woman or an elderly man. Reinhardt's justification? Darwin's theory on survival of the fittest. If a teller got shot, he was too slow. If a woman was raped, she was too weak. If a soldier was killed, he'd been a liability. It was this last example that sent a burning hatred throughout Shaun, so intense it made him want to put a bullet in the man's head.

"What are you talking about?" he asked annoyed.

"If you're gonna wave that thing around, take the damn bullets out," Reinhardt responded, tapping his finger against the table. "Last thing I need is a fucking piece of lead in my ear, especially from some damn cricket gun."

Shaun's grip tightened around the handle of the weapon in question. The bank robber's notorious short fuse was matched by a massive lack of respect for anything that didn't centre on him and his opinion. In Reinhardt's mind, if a gun could fit in one hand and couldn't fire at least 50 rounds in as many seconds, it was useless.

The pistol Shaun held was a Belgian-made FN Five-seven Herstal. Used by police and militaries around the world, the weapon had become a favourite of drug cartels in Mexico. Down there, the weapon was called the _mata policia_ or 'cop killer', and with good reason; loaded with 5.7x28mm SS190 rounds, the gun was capable of penetrating Kevlar vests commonly worn by police officers. And Shaun had outfitted it with extended magazines, ones that could hold 30 bullets at a time.

Merely having the customized weapon around carried a substantial risk. The state of New York had some of the most restrictive gun laws in the United States. Weapons purchased out of state - as were most of the weapons he'd seen here - were prohibited to carry around, and the state carried a mandatory three and a half year sentence for possession of illegal firearms. The mere notion that the government could lock people up for exercising their second amendment rights set Shaun's blood on fire. He had served the nation - _his_ nation, for at the time he still considered it his - and this was how they treated people like him? It was unacceptable and he'd be damned if he just let that go.

Still, Shaun wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to go around the streets of Manhattan waving the pistol around like a crazed lunatic screaming about government oppression. No-he preferred a more _impactful _approach.

"Whatever," he growled finally.

Reinhardt lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "You wanna know what I think?"

"No."

"I think you're crazy, man." The bank robber breathed out a stream of smoke. "That's what I think, that you've got a few screws loose upstairs. I think you're fucking insane."

"I don't care what you think," Shaun responded, although he thought it was more than just a little bit hypocritical to be called insane by a man who allegedly once shot and paralyzed a man on crutches for not getting out of his way fast enough.

"Well, you should. From what I hear, you've lost all touch with reality. I hear you forget where you are sometimes. Have some kind of hallucinations or something. Like you're back in fucking Afghanistan or wherever it was."

The grip around the pistol tightened. "Leave it alone."

"Or what?" Reinhardt challenged. "You gonna shoot me or something? How do you think that would go over with the boss?"

"Your boss, not mine."

"Still thinking that, huh? Well come on, Psycho Man! Let's see what you got! Or did you lose your balls back there as well as your team?"

Shaun swore he felt his eye twitch. He stared at Reinhardt's smug face with all its arrogance and could literally _see_ him spitting in his face. His index finger slipped over the trigger and he was contemplating where to shoot the son of a bitch first - the shin or the kneecap - when a voice interrupted them.

"The hell's goin' on down here?"

Reinhardt looked up, paused, and then took another drag from the cigarette. "Nothing, just talking."

"Yeah?" Rook said, sitting across from them. "Well you can put that gun down while you do it, Shaun."

Shaun cast a glare at the bigger man, which was met by an equally intense one, before reluctantly setting the weapon on the table.

Reinhardt smirked. "Oh, I don't know. My gun can say things just as well as I can. Especially when I want to say 'I want all the money, baby, including the bills under the counter. So put them in there and keep your hands away from that silent alarm. And give me a nice shot of them tits when you do it; otherwise your boyfriend's gonna be dating a dead broad'."

Shaun gave him a piercing look. "You know what my gun says?"

"What's that?"

He grabbed hold of it again and stood up. "Let me put this loudmouthed S.O.B. out of his misery."

Reinhardt put out his cigarette, picked up his own weapon - a 9mm pistol - and got out of his own chair. "That right?"

"Yeah," Shaun said coolly, never blinking.

"You wanna try that right now, boy? I bet that thing isn't even loaded."

"You mean like your gun?"

"You sure about that?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Why don't we test that right now?"

"Your funeral."

Shaun raised his pistol and pointed it directly at Carl's face - at the same time the Californian stuck his weapon a millimetre away from his.

**BAM**!

A huge fist slammed the table between them followed by a click and a 12-gage sawed off action shotgun was placed between their heads. "Which one of you trigger-happy motherfuckers wants to bet that THIS ONE **ISN'T?!**" Rook roared. "We're a group, hard as it is to see! And as much as I would love to see you ungrateful sons of bitches blow each other's heads off, we got a bunch of federal pigs to kill! So how 'bout you save killing each other until that's taken care of?"

A couple of tense moments passed as none of the men lowered their weapons. The risk of a bloodbath was finally diffused when Reinhardt slowly eased his finger off the trigger. "Whatever you say." He dropped the gun to his side. "But I'll warn you right now, my trigger finger's awfully itchy these days. Especially around psychotic, self-righteous bastards who think they're much more than the rest of us. Don't blame me if your boss ends up short a man just because he didn't know when to shut his mouth."

As the door closed behind the bank robber, a wide-eyed Shaun turned back across the table. "He tries one thing - One. Thing - to screw me over, I'm gonna snap his neck!"

"Whose fault is that?" Rook grunted. "You keep pissing everyone around here off and sooner or later, someone's not gonna take that shit anymore."

"You wanna explain to your boss how he ended up with a bullet between his eyes? 'Cause I'm not."

Rook snorted and shook his head. "He's wrong about you being the crazy one, I'll tell you that. Your screws are a little loose, but his? Guy's a fuckin' lunatic. You hear the story about him in San Francisco? An armoured car guard was picking up a bunch of cash from a grocery store when Reinhardt approached him. He killed him. Took the bastard's head off with an AK-47. Then just picked up the money and left as if nothin' happened. Guy's colder than a deep freeze meat locker. Glad I don't have to count on him watching _my_ back."

Shaun scowled and went back to fiddling with the Five-seven. It felt comfortable in his hand - natural. The inanimate object felt a lot more like an ally to him than the supposed group he was a part of. Truth be told, he couldn't stand any of them. The boss of this crew was a complete enigma, always giving vague explanations for everything; Shaun wasn't even sure if the name the man had given him was the real one or just an alias to keep his enemies at a disadvantage. Rook seemed to be little more than a jacked-up Neanderthal whose size and strength supposedly made up for his limited brain power; his focus seemed to be concentrated on a fanatical hatred of government, police, and federal authorities, as well as constantly dismissing women as little more than sex toys who were useless everywhere outside the home. It was their bank robber companion, however, who Shaun had the most disdain for; Reinhardt was sadistic, undisciplined and had an insatiable appetite for money. He was part of the corrupt, money-driven system the U.S. government had become; like a parasite, he took what he wanted from it before leaving and coming back for more later, and they kept letting him do it.

Shaun had briefly entertained the idea of pulling the same trick on Reinhardt as he had with the blogger, but eventually decided against it. The bombing of Ryan Howard had not been sanctioned by the boss, and had not won him any favours. To be honest, Shaun could care less; he had almost as much hatred for Howard as he had for Reinhardt. If there was one thing he hated more than undisciplined warrior wannabees, it was phony patriots proclaiming their loyalty and passion for everyone to hear.

_The American way of life has never been more under threat_, ranted Howard in one of his last blog posts that Shaun had forced himself to read. _For decades, Americans have sat back and watched what was once God's chosen nation fall victim to the liberal mass media propaganda machine of inclusion, diversity and multiculturalism. We've watched our white sons and daughters fall victim to the wiles of foreign-born freeloaders looking for an easy way to get into this country through fraudulent marriage. We've watched the strength and might of the nation that defeated the Soviet Union become timid and weak under the wave of feminism and the homosexual rights movement. Our leaders must decide whether they continue down this path and lead America into destruction or once again make the decisions that made any terrorist think twice about ever raising a hand against this country. The time for Reaganist leadership is now._

Shaun wasn't a racist or a sexist or a homophobe or any other unsavoury label the other members of the group seemed to drift towards. He was an American patriot who'd sworn an oath to protect the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic. The idea that someone who had never served a day in his life felt like he could talk about how country's military ought to behave was an outrage in his mind. This was the same man who talked about how America would be safer with drones patrolling the skies; how every person even _remotely_ suspected of terrorism should be apprehended, labelled 'enemy combatants', stripped of all their rights and shipped off to Guantanamo Bay or some CIA black site where they could be 'interrogated' - i.e. tortured - and held for years without charge. No, Shaun wasn't sorry he'd blown the man to pieces. The only thing he was sorry about was that he hadn't done it sooner.

"I'll tell you what," Rook was saying. "Once we've got done what we want to, I'm breaking the bastard's neck myself. I'm sick and tired of all the shit dealing with him. Guy thinks he's the Joker or something." He placed a glass on the table and pulled out a bottle of cheap brandy. "See how well he can smile through broken teeth."

He snorted and popped the lid off the bottle before tilting it sideways, pouring its contents into the glass.

**GLUG GLUG GLUG GLUG**_._

Shaun watched transfixed. He felt his chest begin to tighten. His heart started to pound.

**GLUG GLUG GLUG**.

_The water slid out of the jug - slowly, steadily. Like a mini waterfall, it flowed easily with nothing between it and what was directly below to stop it. _

_**GLUG GLUG GLUG**_

_Then as it landed on the piece of material, there came a new sound - ceaseless and continuing._

_**SLOSH SLOSH SLOSH**_

_As the water splashed against the thin towel, the piece of cloth shifted and shook. Choking and gasping sounds came from underneath it._

_From a distance Shaun watched as the naked figure writhed and struggled against the restraints securing him to the plastic board underneath him. The cloth pulled over his nose and mouth shifted as he struggled vainly for air. The constant stream of water pouring down over it made it impossible for him to take a breath; even the slightest attempt caused him to choke more. His eyes darted around frantically._

_Next to him, the bald man with the shaved head and dark sunglasses held up his hand. Another man in a ski mask standing beside the board ceased the flow of water from the jug while a third man, also masked and crouching behind the board removed the cloth from the prisoner's face. The prisoner immediately started coughing and gasping for air._

_Shaun glanced at his watch. He had lasted nine seconds - five seconds less than the average volunteer from the CIA._

_The bald man took the end of the board nearest the prisoner's head and pulled it upward, turning the board so that it stood up straight. He gazed at directly at the man, keeping his sunglasses on so that the prisoner could only see his own reflection. "That was just a small taste. We got a lot of privacy and a lot of water," he said. "And the air in this room's getting hotter and thicker. Trust me - it's not going to get easier. Now, let's try this again. Who are you working for?"_

"_No one!" The prisoner, a South Asian man with a trimmed beard and accent common to the disputed areas of both Afghanistan and Pakistan said frantically. "I work for no one! You're making a mistake!"_

_The bald man smoothly pushed the board back down horizontally. He nodded to the masked men. "Continue."_

"_What? No! Don't-" The man protested before the cloth was pulled down over his mouth and nose again. The man holding the jug tipped it forward and the water flowed over again. The prisoner's eyes bulged and darted around frantically as the liquid threatened to invade his passages. He tried to scream, ended up choking instead. His shook back and forth violently._

_Shaun felt an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach. Out of all the people in this room, he was the only one who was a member of the U.S. military. He was, in essence, alone and out of his element; the other men didn't share too much information with him other than what he "needed" to know. He knew the bald man was trying to procure the location of someone or something, which meant a thorough questioning of the poor bastard undergoing the 'enhanced interrogation tactic' known as waterboarding. _

_Of course, in the official report, that wasn't happening because none of them were officially here - not him, not the men, not the prisoner. Which conveniently meant those pesky little things called human rights and the legal system didn't apply in this case._

_The prisoner started gagging and heaving, his body jerking up and down as he struggled to hold his breath. He failed miserably._

_The bald man knelt beside him. "Listen to me, and listen well. You're not cut out to resist. You're a messenger - a nobody. You're the guy everybody sends off on a futile suicide bombing. You're expendable. And you're gonna break, believe me. Why prolong the agony?"_

_The man with the jug ceased with the water flow and when the cloth was removed, the prisoner spat out a mouthful of water and coughed violently. The bald man said, "Give us the name and it'll stop. Who are you working for? Which group?"_

_As the prisoner looked over with panicked eyes, Shaun saw the faintest look of satisfaction flicker over the bald man's face for a split second. He was enjoying it, Shaun realized. Getting off on the prisoner's fear._

"_I don't know anything, I swear! I'm not a terrorist!"_

"_Continue."_

_Shaun's discomfort grew as he watched as the cloth was replaced and the water flowed again. He wasn't CIA; he was a soldier who gave his worth to protect the United States and all its rights and freedoms. In his mind, this was below what America was about. Torture was for oppressive, dictatorial Third World countries, not the shining beacon of democracy that he grew up believing his nation was. For a brief moment, he thought about stepping in and saying this was going too far. Then the images of people leaping hundreds of feet to escape the burning towers re-entered his mind and his resolve hardened._

_This session lasted even shorter, no more than seven seconds, before the prisoner started gagging and jerking around. The bald man stood over him. "Who are you working for?"_

_The cloth was removed. "Al-Qaeda!" the man said through choked gasps for air._

"_That's a lie. You're telling us what you think we want to hear. Give us the real name." When the prisoner failed to answer, the cloth was replaced and the torture continued. It barely lasted five seconds this time._

"_LeT! I work for LeT!"_

_The bald man immediately signalled the other men to stop. He grabbed hold of the board and pulled it up vertically, looking at the prisoner piercingly through his shades. "You sure about that?" he asked in a no-bullshit voice._

"_Yes! I work for LeT."_

_That caught Shaun's attention. The LeT, or Lashkar-e-Taiba (literally _Army of the Righteous_) was one of the largest and most active Islamist militant groups in South Asia, especially across the border in Pakistan. Designated as a terrorist organization by the United States and other countries, the group's stated goal was to establish an Islamic state in the region and had a long list of those it considered enemies of Islam and Pakistan; these included Jews, Hindus, India, Israel and the U.S. Shaun wasn't sure why LeT would provoke this type of response from the CIA; when the organization wanted to deal with a threat from Pakistan, they mostly did it using a Hellfire missile fired from a remote-controlled drone. What was different here?_

_The bald man slowly took off his shades; Shaun couldn't see his eyes because he was facing away from him but the prisoner who could see them swallowed hard. _

"_Where?"_

"_In Peshawar. A small safe house on the edge of the city. The one with the big red roof."_

"_You wouldn't happen to be lying to me just to get us to stop, would you?" _

"_I swear in the name of Allah, I am not!"_

"_Good." The bald man leaned in close. "Because if I find out you're bullshitting me, I'm not going to come back for you. I'm going to take your wife and children, I'm going to strap them down on their backs and I'm going do to them what was done to you. Except this time, we're going to see if Allah chooses to let them live or die 'cause we're not going to stop until he either intervenes or they suffocate." He patted the horrified prisoner's face. "Thanks for your time."_

_He replaced his sunglasses, turned and walked away. As he passed Shaun, he gave a small smile. "Enjoying yourself yet, Shaun..?"_

"_Shaun…?"_

"HEY, SHAUN!"

Shaun blinked abruptly and stared across the table. Rook was looking at him clutching his empty glass in one hand and the shotgun in the other. "You back in your dream world again?"

Shaun bit his tongue. His heart rate was slowing down; he took some concealed deep breaths to speed up the process. "It's nothing."

"Sure as hell looked like something to me. I thought I was going to have to shoot this thing into the ceiling to snap you out of it. The hell's wrong with ya?"

"I said it's nothing. Back off, Rook," Shaun repeated coldly.

"Sure, whatever." The big man stood up, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "You go back to playing in your world of hallucinations. The rest of us have a real job to do. Like figuring out what part of those feds' bodies I'm going to rip off first. You got any ideas, you let me know."

As Rook departed, Shaun stood and picked up the Five-seven. Despite his low opinions of Rook's intelligence, the man was right about one thing. The FBI's presence was something he hadn't taken into account, despite being trained to expect the unexpected. The face they were here - because of _him_ - sent a wave of emotions flying through his mind. On one hand, he cursed himself for having brought too much attention before he was ready to deal with it; no matter what the man in the suit had said, you _**never**_ wanted to give your enemy a heads-up unless you were damn sure you were ready for them. Then again, he had no idea what the boss was planning; a tombstone would be more willing to give details than he was.

On the other hand…

Shaun looked across to the far side of the room where numerous human-shaped targets had been attached to the wall. The grey stone behind them, Shaun knew, was riddled with bullet holes - mostly from Carl's sadistic fantasy of ripping a person to shreds with a fully automatic assault rifle.

Shaun raised the pistol in both hands. Looking down the barrel, he saw the target. His drill instructor back in the Army had always told him to imagine that it was not a lifeless target he was looking at, but a real enemy. How could you prepare to kill a man, or woman, if all the practice you had was 'killing' a piece of cardboard? No, you had to see your enemy in your mind. Picture them. Make them come _alive_.

Shaun saw the target change in his mind. It was now in the form of a faceless federal agent. He could see the letters _**FBI**_ emblazoned on the front vest. A vest that was certain to be Kevlar, able to stop most conventional small arms fire.

Shaun took aim and squeezed the trigger. Again. And again. And again.

_**BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM**_.

Small pieces of stone fell to the floor and crumbled underneath the target. On the sheet of paper, the area over the heart was ripped to shreds as the bullets passed effortlessly through them.

Shaun raised the weapon and readjusted his aim, this time right on the target's head. He saw nothing but a blank space - the faceless, soulless image of the United States government.

His eyes didn't so much as flicker as he pulled the trigger again.

**A/N: HEADS UP! The next chapter will include scenes that some readers may find uncomfortable. If that's the case, feel free to skip it. But for those of you who will read it, let me just say I'm sure you're going to LOVE it! Let's just say it's been highly anticipated. :)**

**A/N: Please review! **


	16. I-15

**A/N: GRAPHIC SCENE ALERT!**

**A/N: **_**The Mist**_** is a 2007 horror film starring Thomas Jane and Marcia Gay Harden.**

**A/N: Paget Brewster, being the comic that she is, had the ingenious idea to blurt out the unusual expression 'oh motherballs' when she once screwed up her lines according to an outtake on YouTube. This is the inspiration for her similar, more colourful expression in this chapter, one I get the feeling Paget might have used if that kind of language was allowed on the show.**

By nine o'clock that evening, Emily was ready to blow her brains out.

Not because her headache had returned; not because they had hit another dead end in their investigation – although both of those were true – but because it was a preferable alternative to going on a multi-state killing spree, starting right here in the Big Apple.

Leaning back in her chair, she felt she had aged about fifty years in the last two hours. It seemed that no matter where she went, trouble seemed determined to follow her around like swarm of starving mosquitos. It especially liked to bring her personal life into contact with her professional one.

"You alright, Prentiss?" She looked up to see Morgan looking across the table she was sharing with JJ in the hotel restaurant.

Emily sighed and put her fingers to her temples. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Morgan and JJ exchanged glances. "You don't look it," the blonde agent responded.

Emily waved her hand dismissively. "It's nothing. Just dealing with some stuff."

"Anything serious?"

"No, just aggravating." That was the understatement of the century. With the investigation at a standstill for the evening, she'd decided to call her home answering machine and check if there were any messages for her. Looking back, she regretted doing so. The first message was from her new landlord asking, using less than polite terms, when she was going to pay her damn rent. Some parts of resettling back into her old life were more difficult than others, and this was one of them. Not helping was the long rant of a voicemail her mother had left her about why she hadn't called like she promised - Emily couldn't remember ever promising to call the ambassador – which left her feeling drained and brought her migraine back in full force. Yes, a nice tasty lead treat sounded mighty good right now. The only thing stopping her was the fact that it would likely traumatize other people in the restaurant, not to mention the shitstorm that would rain down on the rest of the BAU when Strauss found out.

Fortunately, the others didn't linger on the subject. "I'm really surprised we haven't gotten a solid lead with this case yet," JJ remarked as she set down her glass of sparkling water next to her empty plate that had held salmon, shrimp and assorted vegetables.

"We will," Morgan insisted, sawing at the small bit of his New York-style steak that remained.

"I wish I had your optimism."

Emily began rummaging through her purse. "Has anyone got a Tylenol?"

Morgan looked up, chewing a big piece of meat. "No. Why?"

"Because I've had a headache since before I got on the damn plane yesterday and it's determined to make me shoot myself in the head," she growled.

"Since yesterday? Why didn't you say something?" JJ asked.

Emily snorted. "We have an UnSub or a group of UnSubs that love bombs and mutilation. Been kinda preoccupied with that."

"Well, if I'd known you needed it, I would've brought that spare bottle I keep in my desk. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You forget who you're talking to," Morgan interjected. "She wouldn't tell anyone if her heart started growing outside her body."

Emily fixed him with a look. "Well thank you so much. It's nice to know I have such supportive friends," she said sarcastically.

He grinned. "Just trying to lighten your mood."

"It's not working."

"So what will work? OW!" Morgan doubled over as JJ delivered a sharp elbow to his side. "What?"

"There's a time and a place for that kind of help and this isn't it," the blonde agent replied.

"You could have told me that without the elbow."

"What's the matter? The muscles over your ribcage underdeveloped?"

"Oh, that's low, JJ."

Emily threw her bag onto the table in frustration. "Damn it!"

Morgan and JJ looked at her in concern. "Look, Emily, if you really need something, I have some aspirin in my room I can give you," the black man offered.

Emily looked at him hopefully. "What kind are they?"

"Bayer."

On the inside, Emily cringed at the mention of that name. Aloud, she merely sighed. "Forget it. Bayer and I don't get along." That was another huge understatement, as Emily recalled all too well the last time she had taken a couple of those small white capsules right before she went to bed. The next seven hours consisted of her repeatedly bolting to the bathroom with a severe case of vomiting and the runs. It had been a shitty night to say the least, one she couldn't explain and had no interest in repeating.

"Look, Emily, if you want, I can go and buy you some Tylenol," JJ offered.

Emily shook her head. "Don't bother. They'd probably charge you five bucks a capsule. I'll grab some ice from the vending machine when I leave."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks anyway."

Morgan checked his watch and signalled the waitress. "Well, I don't know about you ladies, but I'm gonna head up and look over the case file some more. Maybe find something we missed."

JJ checked her own watch. "Oh, damn. I told Will that I'd call at eight-thirty. He's gonna start worrying if I don't do it in like the next five minutes." She reached into her purse to pull out her wallet. Morgan shook his head. "I got this, Jaygee."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He slipped several twenty dollar bills to the waitress, who had just returned with the bill. "It's the gentleman thing to do."

"So where's the gentleman?" Emily asked. "I don't see any here."

JJ laughed as Morgan shook his head and stood up. "Harsh, Emily. Harsh. I'll see you two tomorrow."

After Morgan departed, JJ turned back to her remaining colleague. "I'm gonna head on up to my room too. You coming?"

Emily shook her head. "Going to finish my drink first. Maybe a powerful shot of this strong ice water will knock my headache out – if it doesn't knock me out first."

JJ chuckled. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow. Eight o'clock, right?"

"Eight, yeah."

"What do you think the chances are we can convince Hotch to push it back an hour?"

"About the same as making Strauss smile and congratulate us on a job well done."

"In other words, no chance at all."

"More or less."

JJ chuckled again and stood up. "Goodnight Emily."

"Night."

As JJ walked off, Emily sighed and leaned back, eyeing the empty plate in front of her. She had ordered what had been a perfect dinner for a field agent in the FBI – grilled chicken served with fresh asparagus alongside steamed white rice, complimented by a glass of pure ice water from the icebergs off Alaska. It was nutritious, it was healthy –

_It sucked_, Emily thought. She wanted a damn pizza, one with extra pepperoni and every topping known to man. The hell with her diet; she burned more calories in one of Morgan's torturous cardio classes than what most American fast food chains served every day.

But more than anything, she wanted to get rid of her headache once and for all. Since she didn't have any Tylenol and she didn't want to risk having to spend the night next to the toilet with Morgan's aspirin, she was left with a set of limited options. For the second night in a row, she found herself with a tough choice to make, and this one was particularly nasty; she could take a gamble that a leaky pack of ice from the vending machine would indeed take away the pain (and not leave her with a nasty case of pneumonia in the morning) or she could clench her teeth and ignore the churn in her stomach as she walked over to the nearest pharmacy and forked over her hard-earned money for an obscenely overpriced bottle of Tylenol.

The answer was obvious, as she picked up her purse and strode out of the restaurant to the hotel's front door. If she had to spend some green to avoid throwing up something green, she would. It was a small price to pay to avoid something in the long run.

Besides, a nice walk in the cool New York air would do her some good. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

* * *

><p>Scott felt like every single muscle in his upper body was about to tear and shred into a million tiny pieces. His teeth clenched so hard, his jaw ached like it had just had a bad dentist experience. Sweat ran off his forehead onto the mat on the floor. He felt as if the blood vessels in his arms were about to burst, his biceps and triceps literally shaking from exhaustion.<p>

"Come on Scott, don't give up now. You've almost got it."

Scott let out a series of short pants. "Easy for you to say," he grunted.

"Breathe. Get the oxygen flowing to your muscles. You can do this."

Earl's voice was supposed to provide comfort, Scott supposed. If that was true, it failed miserably. Maybe he ought to have said no when Earl invited him over to the small gym in his apartment complex and made good on his initial plan of getting trashed on Jack Daniels.

But he hadn't and now Earl was not going to let him throw in the towel until he had benched 215lbs - the most he had attempted since a near disastrous attempt back in his senior year of high school – for the last of five reps.

"Come on, man, you're not going soft are you? Just last week you were talking about how good your endurance was."

Scott spat out a bit of sweat that managed to slip between his lips. It tasted as sour as a spoiled glass of orange juice. "On a bike, Earl. Racing in and out of rush hour traffic. Delivering packages to the fine people of New York. Not trying to lift up something that weighs as much as an elephant."

Earl gave a loud laugh. "Maybe a newborn."

"You're not helping."

"Concentrate, Scott. Focus. Give it all your effort."

Sucking in deep breaths in an effort to send more oxygen into his blood, Scott willed his body to do the impossible. Letting out an animalistic grunt, he exerted all the energy he could into his chest and arm muscles.

"You're doing it!" Earl exclaimed. "I think you raised it another two or three inches!"

_For the love of all that's good, let it be three_, Scott thought.

"Come on, man. One more good press and you're there."

Tightening his grip to the point where he could no longer feel his hands, Scott blocked the images in his mind of his muscles ripping apart and focused all his strength into his chest. Clenching his teeth, he was able to exert enough force to push the bar up so his elbows locked for a split second before Earl reached over and guided it into the rack.

Scott's arms flopped lifelessly next to his sides, his chest heaving in and out. He lay there motionless, praying to what, if any, deity existed that he would regain some feeling in them.

Earl's grinning face appeared overhead. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"Very freakin' funny."

"Thought you'd have had enough breath left to at least laugh at that."

"Think again."

The black man shrugged. "Hey, could be worse."

"How?"

"You could be using Mr. Dickie as a bench press."

Scott cringed at that thought. "You just had to go and put that image in my head, didn't you?"

Earl let out a curt laugh. "Better than thinking about the pain, right?" He reached down and helped haul Scott into a sitting position before handing him towel.

Scott mopped his face, staring at himself in the mirror on the other side of the room. His entire body was soaked from his workout; sweat not only coated his skin, causing it to shine in the bright ceiling lights, but also his clothes. His grey T-shirt was nearly as dark as his black shorts. "What was he like after I left?"

"The boss? Oh, you know." Earl began removing the plates from the bar and stacking them in their holders. "Yelling, swearing, calling you the laziest, worst worker he's ever had along with a few other things I promised myself I wouldn't repeat. Told the rest of us if we ever started acting like you, we'd be out of a job faster than we could blink."

Scott sighed. "Mega pissed then."

"Well yeah, but what did you expect after telling him to go fuck himself?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Celeste told me. Not that she needed to, everyone heard you say it. She tried to argue your case, convince Dickie to hire you back, but he refused to hear it."

"Can't say I'm surprised. The War on Terror has a better chance of ending tomorrow than I have of being hired back." Scott let out a deep breath and grabbed the metallic drinking canister next to his foot. He took several long deep swigs. "You know, I've been thinking for a long time what my last words to him were going to be. For a while I considered telling him to fuck his own face, but I doubt he'd be able to bend far enough to do it."

Earl burst out laughing. "Not without working up at least twice the sweat you just did."

Scott merely shook his head and took another drink from the canister.

"Hey man, what'cha got in that thing? Water?"

Scott shook his head again. "Whey protein shake. _Supposed_ to help build lean muscle right after a workout. If it does what it says it does, I might actually reach a buck sixty in six months."

Earl chuckled. "Don't worry man. You're in no danger of becoming a toothpick."

Scott wasn't too sure about that. Not now anyway. Between biking dozens of miles a day for his former job and throwing down several non-light alcoholic drinks multiple times a week, he'd had a pretty decent balance that kept him in fairly decent shape. Not so certain now.

"Besides," Earl was saying, "you keep doing like tonight, you might surpass a buck sixty in six months."

"Here's hoping." Scott remembered not so long ago, when he and Suzy were still together, he'd made the mistake of telling her that he was trying to put on more muscle but had been so far unsuccessful. She'd laughed and told him to get some steroids, obviously not believing a leaner man like him could reach his goal without them. In hindsight, it probably hadn't been smart to make that remark to a woman who was used to being with football players and bodybuilders.

Scott finished his shake, stood up and walked over to his gym bag, stuffing his water bottle inside. His arms were finally feeling normal again, but he knew he'd feel the effects of the workout in the morning. He stripped off his soaked shirt and retrieved a clean white one from his bag, eager for nice cold shower.

"So what are you going to do?" Earl asked. "About a job, I mean."

Scott shrugged as he pulled out a pair of jeans. "Guess I'll hit the classifieds tomorrow."

"Can't you, like, do a job search online?"

"I don't have a computer, remember?"

"So what are you gonna look for?"

"I don't know. The economy was way better when I first got my job. I don't know what's available that I can do. I mean, face it – I'm twenty-six and all I've got for education is a high school diploma and a couple years of college."

"It's more than I've got."

"Yeah, but you've still got your job."

"For now." Earl wiped the sweat off the bench. "I wouldn't be surprised if Dickie starts cleaning house pretty soon, starting with the oldest of us. Most of the other carriers have been dying to say something about his attitude for years; your standing up to him may have been the spark that lit the fuse. Guy's afraid your influence may rub off on the rest of us."

Scott grinned at the thought of the employees of Empire Deliveries staging a mutiny and tossing Dickie out on the same street he'd tossed so many others. The possibility of him being the cause of it was just too good a thought to pass up.

"Well, at least you've got one thing going for you."

"What's that?"

"Any new boss you get can't possibly be worse than your old one. It's gotta be a step up for you wherever you go."

Scott shook his head. "Earl, trust me. Guys like him are a dime a dozen. I could find one just like him any time I wanted."

"How do figure that?"

"It's simple. If I wanted a boss like Dickie, I could get one easily. All I'd have to do is squat down and shit it out."

Earl laughed so hard he actually doubled over. "You completely stole that from _The Mist_," he said through gasps of air.

Scott smiled. "Accurate, isn't it?"

"In the interest of keeping my job, I'll not make any comment that's deemed derogatory to the man who pays my salary. Since 9/11, the whole country's gone crazy with the Patriot Act and the elimination of privacy as we know it. You never know who could be listening."

"Well, to whoever may be listening, I'll say it loud and clear." Scott raised his voice, as though addressing an assembly. "**George Dickie is a selfish, tight-assed, arrogant, narrow-minded son of a bitch."** He threw a smile at Earl. "You think they got that?"

"Oh yeah. They got it."

"Great." Scott stretched his arms. "Now, if nobody's going to knock down the door and take me off to some secret prison across the world, I'm going to take a shower."

"Bout time," Earl remarked. "I was starting to smell you from all the way over here."

"Screw you."

"Intriguing, but you're not my type."

"I'm sure that makes your dominant hand very happy."

Earl snorted and turned to leave. "Just leave the towels on the rack when you're done."

"Why? You expecting company?"

"Sure do. Me, Spike TV and a day-old box of Chinese. It's a date that's long overdue."

Scott chuckled as he walked into the shower, but as the cold water washed over him, the doubts that he had pushed to the side earlier came creeping back into his mind. On one hand, strange as it sounded, he was glad he'd been fired; at least now he wouldn't have to bite his tongue and answer to the pig of a man who ran the company and treated his employees like cattle. On the other hand, he was now without a source of income with no way to pay his rent and a level of education that could barely get him a minimum-wage job. He thought of Chris Jordan, all swagger and confidence proudly proclaiming he would never settle until he got the perfect job – not because he was worthy of it, but because he thought _it_ needed to be worthy of _him_. In his mind, he was the picture perfect man; fit, good-looking, popular with the ladies; had a college degree (the fact that he had nearly flunked out was irrelevant); had enough money left over from his athletic scholarship to throw it around without having to worry about his next paycheck - everything. The fact that his resume had a giant gaping hole under the category 'work experience' mattered little in his mind.

Scott, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. He had an incomplete college degree. He had next to no money to spend on even the most vital of daily needs. He had six years of experience working a demanding, backbreaking job for the most thankless boss in the state of New York. And now all he had to show for it was an asterisk next to his name to show that he'd been terminated as a 'lazy' employee.

Side-by-side, he and Chris were complete opposites in almost every way but the difference was that in the end, it would almost certainly be Chris that ended up on top. In Scott's experience, it was usually the cheaters, liars and bullies who were the most successful; the ones who got to the top by manipulating and bulldozing through everyone to get what they wanted. The ones who, with a mere phone call or email, could be offered a lucrative job and salary because of who they knew, not how hard they worked. Chris was a prime example of this and would waste no time in flaunting his 'success' once he actually found an employer willing to look the other way to his less-than-stellar attitude.

In the ideal world, men and women who worked hard and busted their asses came out on top. But this wasn't an ideal world – not even close to it. In the end, Scott believed, people like Chris would end up in the penthouse. And Scott, just like so many others, would end up in the doghouse.

* * *

><p>The pharmacy doors slammed shut behind Emily as she walked across the nearly deserted parking lot and over to the sidewalk. She didn't look back or slow her pace; she wasn't sure whether she trusted herself to remain professional if she did.<p>

Gunning down multiple people in front of countless surveillance cameras didn't count as professional, she was sure of that.

Along the sidewalk, she quickened her pace, eager to put as much distance between her and the pharmacy as possible. It was the only thing she could do to maintain her sanity.

The trip to pick up a bottle of Tylenol – a seemingly easy task for a child, much less an FBI agent – had turned into a complete nightmare. Her headache, which had been slowly decreasing on her walk from the hotel, had exploded back into full force. And on top of it, she still didn't have anything to make it go away.

In hindsight, maybe she should've walked away the moment she witnessed the absolute tyrant of a pharmacist behind the counter shoot a dark look at the Korean teenage girl who was in front of Emily in line, but she thought it was just her throbbing brain playing tricks on her. She turned out to be dead wrong.

From what she could tell, the situation had escalated the moment the girl had given in her prescription. The pharmacist, a bearded Indian man in his thirties, looked at the paper, gave a big scowl and told her in a not-so-quiet tone that sixteen-year-old girls should not have to be using birth control. The girl, obviously mortified and embarrassed, tried to explain it was from her doctor, but was almost immediately caught off by the pharmacist launching into a vicious tirade.

Never in Emily's life had she heard such a vitriolic diatribe delivered with such genuine inflections of disgust and hate as this man heaped upon that poor girl. She listened in stunned silence as he ranted about the degradation of American morals, the lack of parental authority, the sin of premarital sex and how allowing teens to purchase birth control encouraged them to partake in such sinful behaviour. It got so bad the girl eventually ran out the front door, tears streaming down her face, in front of several other shocked customers. When the pharmacist snapped at Emily, asking what she needed, she gave the man several choice words and stormed out.

Outside, she looked for the girl, but could find no trace of her. The parking lot was deserted and empty. Maybe she'd had her parents waiting for her in a car – hopefully. People, especially teenagers, could make bad decisions, especially after an incident like that.

She gritted her teeth as the migraine travelled to her frontal lobes. In hindsight - there seemed to be a lot of that going on - she probably should've waited until she'd paid for a bottle of aspirin before confronting the pharmacist. Well, she damn sure wasn't going to go back now.

That left her in the unenviable position of trying to sleep with what felt like a sledgehammer knocking against her skull. Emily was used to having less-than-ideal nights, but it would be nice to have something go right after a day pursuing leads that ultimately went nowhere; Johnny Ramos' and Bridget Silver's killer - or killers - was still at large and so was their mystery bomber. So much for her promise of justice to the Silvers and Alexis Ramos.

She quickened her pace along the sidewalk, wanting to reach the hotel as quickly as possible. She never could get used to the vastness of New York even though she had spent time in some very large cities before. All the sounds of the city in all that space – sometimes it just seemed like lost noise.

New York was called The City That Never Sleeps. Well, actually, that wasn't really accurate; Reid had told her that that was a name attributed to several cities around the world. New York was just one – along with Mumbai, Tel Aviv, Lagos, Barcelona, Mecca, Buenos Aires and Tokyo. Regardless, America's representative seemed to surpass all of them, by reputation if nothing else.

Emily just hoped that the city's insomnia didn't extend to people like her - naïve out-of-towners stupid enough to forget a 24-capsule bottle of Tylenol on her kitchen table.

* * *

><p>Scott shifted his gym bag over his shoulder, grimacing slightly as the strap rubbed against his back muscles through his leather jacket. The street, although a main city line with bright street lights and several lit buildings on both sides, was largely quiet; only the sounds of his jeans shifting and his footsteps on the sidewalk were currently keeping him company. To say the last couple days had been rough would be like saying the sun was hot – a massive understatement. He just wanted to get home, crash and sleep for a month.<p>

He briefly considered still going through with his original plan – i.e. getting totally trashed on something cold, strong and alcoholic – but decided it wasn't worth it. With no job, indeed no source of income whatsoever, his wallet would get very thin very fast if he headed to the bar every time he felt the least bit stressed. Plus, Earl would give him all kinds of shit about wasting all that time and energy working out when he was just going to drink it all away. Far better to play it safe for now.

Despite being the largest city in all of North America, New York seemed fairly deserted right now. The calm evening crispness of the air passed by the undone zipper and through his exposed white T-shirt against his chest. He had the sense he was walking down the street of an affluent suburb rather than a major city. Scott liked it like this – not for the desertedness, but for the peace. He'd lived in New York for the better part of eight years; it was times like these that reminded him of his childhood in Minnesota. A time when life was easier and lacked the challenges and difficulties of life as an independent adult. Still, like all good things in life, it had to come to an end.

Scott quickened his pace. The bus stop was still a good couple of blocks away and at this time of night they only ran every half hour or so; he had to double-time it if he didn't want to miss the bus scheduled to arrive in the next five minutes. Scott wasn't nervous or anything, but he also wasn't too hot on the idea of standing around for thirty minutes waiting all alone.

He gripped the bag strap tightly as he neared an empty intersection and was about to step out into the road to cross when a change in light across the street caught his attention. He threw a casual glance towards it and stopped on the edge of the curb.

The figure walking briskly along the opposite sidewalk was crossing the street. Its outline was lithe, slim and definitely feminine. Scott watched as she shifted what appeared to be a purse on her shoulder; as she reached the other side of the street she passed underneath a street light, and for a brief moment her whole body was illuminated, including her face.

He stared. It was that FBI agent, Emily Prentiss.

Scott stood rooted to the spot, watching. It _was_ her, he was sure of it. Even across the street in the low light, he recognized the walk – it had the same swagger as when he saw her in the hospital. She was wearing the same dark suit as she wore the previous day. Her long black hair hung at the sides of her face onto her shoulders and down her back. The light reflected off her face; her thin eyebrows were knitted together in a sense of deep concentration. Her shoes made a rapid clicking sound on the sidewalk.

_I wonder where she's going_, Scott thought. For the second night in a row, he had observed her all by herself without any other member of her team. Was this another impromptu trip to the local bar?

But as he continued to watch, she turned off the sidewalk and walked into a parking lot a few buildings down from the corner. Scott raised an eyebrow as he noted the lot was adjacent to a midsized hotel. He observed her walk across to the glass double doors, open up one and enter the building.

Scott briefly glanced across the street; upon seeing the road was clear, a seemingly crazy thought entered his head – one he would never have considered just a couple of days ago. Curiosity got the better of him – he was intrigued by what he saw – so he did what any curious person would do.

He stepped out into the road and jogged across the street.

In his mind, he asked himself if he was crazy, what the hell he thought he was doing. But even in the amount of time it took him to formulate these thoughts, he was already across the street. Holding on tightly to his gym bag, he moved across the parking lot and opened up the door to the hotel. As he entered the small but brightly lit lobby, he caught the barest glimpse of a door to a staircase close about fifteen feet away.

Scott started to stride quickly towards the door, but quickly thought better of it; running up behind a trained federal agent, who may very well be armed, was probably not the smartest idea. So he steadied his pace as he walked towards the door and opened it. Above him, he could hear the sound of footsteps walking up the steps followed by the sound of another door opening.

_Second floor_, he thought before starting the climb himself.

Moving quickly but quietly, he walked up the green stairs to the second floor, catching the door to the second floor before it closed. He slipped into the brightly lit hallway. To the right was the end of the hall with a couple chair made of worn red material. To the left were rows of doors – about twenty on each side – leading to the guest rooms. Special Agent Emily Prentiss stopped about halfway down the hallway and turned towards a door on the right.

As Scott watched, she took her purse off her shoulder and fished around in it for a moment before pulling out a key card. Sliding it into the lock, she waited a second before pulling it out and turning the handle. The door didn't open. She tried again and it still didn't open.

Scott stood in place, watching in growing amusement. Emily growled in frustration as she tried repeatedly to open the door, so focused on it that she didn't hear when he walked up to within ten feet of her. She slid her card into the lock over and over again – at least a dozen times. Each time the little red light on the lock blinked, denying her entrance. She angrily hit the door with her fist. "Holy shitballs!"

This time Scott didn't keep quiet; upon hearing this unusual term, he couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Emily whipped her head around at the sound and froze, key suspended in mid-air; her face reflected both anger at the door's lack of cooperation and the shock of seeing who had witnessed it.

Scott gave her a look. "Holy shitballs?" he repeated slightly incredulously.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" she hissed.

"I mean, I've heard a lot of unusual cursing in my day, but that one might just take the cake."

"Don't change the subject! What are you doing here?"

"Personally, for this, I'd stick with the good old 'son of a bitch!' when I hit the door."

"Are you following me?" Emily demanded, and Scott noticed she was keeping her hand slightly inside her suit jacket at her right hip.

"Do I look like I'm dressed to follow an FBI agent?"

"What's in the bag?"

"Jimmy Hoffa's head. Kidding!" he quickly said as her eyes narrowed and her hand moved further inside her jacket. "It's just gym clothes."

"Show me."

"Huh?"

"The bag. I want to see for myself. Give it to me."

Scott wasn't sure if she was completely within the law to demand a search of his personal property without a warrant, but decided it would be better not to further piss off a likely armed federal agent. He took the bag off his shoulder and handed it over to her, watching as she unzipped it and rifled through his damp clothes. He noticed she never kept her eyes off him for more than two seconds or her hand too far away from her side.

"Satisfied?" he asked when she had moved his water canister around for what seemed liked the fifth time. With a scowl, Emily zipped it back up and handed it back. "You didn't really think you'd find Jimmy Hoffa's head in there, did you?"

Emily ignored the question. "You didn't answer me before. What are you doing here? Were you following me?"

"Hardly. I was walking to the bus stop, happened to see you walking across the street and…"

"And thought you'd follow me up to my room?" Emily repeated incredulously. "Do you realize how creepy that is?"

"Hey, I just wanted to see if it really was you," Scott said, holding his hands up in the air. It was close enough to the truth.

"Well, as you can see, it is. Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot still to do tonight." She hoped the lie would be convincing enough to get the message across.

"I'm sure," he replied with a grin. "But you'll actually have to get into your room first to do that."

Emily glared at his amusement at her obvious inability to use a key card successfully. "Oh, you think it's funny, do you?"

"I said nothing."

"Keep it that way. I'm not in the mood for any smartass remarks, _Mr._ Jackson." She turned away and slid the card into the slot once more, barely keeping back a snarl when the red light again indicated the lock's denial of entry.

"Can I see that?" Taking his safety into his hands, he didn't wait for a response before taking the card from her and looking at it closely. After a moment, he glanced up at the door and then let out a chuckle.

"What is it?" Emily asked.

"You could have stood here all night long and it still wouldn't let you in."

"Why not?"

He showed her the card. "Because this isn't the key to this room."

Wide-eyed, she stared at the number on the card. **211**. Then she turned and looked at the number on the door. **209**.

Emily let out a loud groan. _Are you freaking kidding me?_ She'd been so frustrated about the incident at the pharmacy that she hadn't even checked the door number, automatically assuming it was hers. A hot flush came across her face in embarrassment. For all she knew, she had been hitting and trying to force open a door to an occupied room, scaring the hell out of anybody in there. She prayed this was one of the rooms with a vacancy, as the sign outside said there was.

"I mean, it's an easy enough mistake to make, but for a federal agent -"

Emily all but snatched the card from his hand. "Thank you," she said coldly. She moved deftly past him to the next door just a few more feet down the hall, but found, much to her annoyance, that he remained standing in the hall with a look of amusement.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" she said, hoping he would take the hint.

_Damn, she's even more beautiful when she's mad. _"Not really. I don't have anything I need to get up early for."

"Even the people waiting for packages to be delivered?" _How else would you keep that firm, sturdy frame?_

"Not from me. I was fired this afternoon." Scott halted. He hadn't meant to say that – it had slipped out before his brain could determine whether he should.

Emily turned and looked at him. "Why?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Told the boss what I really thought of him. He didn't take it too well."

At that moment Emily felt a strange feeling of understanding come over her. She could easily relate to that, being forced to keep quiet about something or someone out of necessity. She tried to picture herself telling Strauss what she really thought of her; the bureau chief did so many things that rubbed her the wrong way, it would be a day-long event - one she'd be lucky to get ten minutes into before being fired.

"So what now?" she asked.

Scott shrugged. "Got to find something else."

"Well, good luck with that." Hoping to end the discussion before it got drawn out- and cross another boundary- Emily turned back to the door and slid the card in, breathing a silent sigh of relief when the green light flickered and the lock clicked. She had just pushed open the door when she heard him say, "Kind of ironic, don't'cha think?"

She turned and, against her better judgement, decided to answer him. "What is?"

"Last night you were the one to accompany me to my door. Tonight, I'm the one doing the same for you."

"Funny way the world works, isn't it?"

Scott took a couple steps forward so he was only a foot away from her. "Sure is."

Emily became aware of how close he'd come and started to feel her heartbeat increase. She suddenly remembered how so many victims of crime were killed because they were caught off guard. The door to her room was slightly propped open by her leaning against it, and she cursed herself for allowing him to get so close to her; she couldn't let the door close without walking straight into him. To shove her into the room and close the door behind him would take barely a second. She started assessing her options, figuring the best defensive move would be a straight knee to his groin should he get physical with her. She became aware of a gnawing feeling in her stomach, but strangely enough, she couldn't tell whether it was signalling danger or… _something else_.

"You know, this is starting to be a repeat of last night," he replied smoothly.

"How's that?"

"The last time we were this close together, I'm pretty sure we shared more than a handshake, Agent Prentiss."

She swallowed hard as the memory came flooding back into her mind. "That was a mistake," she said firmly. The voice in her head was just as firm in saying the opposite.

"Was it?"

"Yes. And you're making another mistake."

"Which is?"

"We weren't this close last night." Her mouth suddenly felt very dry.

"No?"

"No. _We were closer_."

Scott took another step forward. If he were to bow his head, he would knock up against hers. "You mean _this _close?"

Emily licked her lips. "_Closer_."

Scott took another tiny step forward. They were practically less than an inch away at this point – he could feel her breath on his face. It caused the nerves in his hands to momentarily freeze up. "This is pretty damn close."

For a moment, Emily worried about the consequences should any of her colleagues come out into the hall at this point. Her room was right next to Hotch's, and she couldn't imagine what would happen if the former prosecutor were to see the way she was acting right this moment. But that thought passed from her mind almost as quickly as it had come.

Her lips parted. "_Not close enough_."

"Gives new meaning to the term 'in your face.'"

"Pervert."

"Guilty as charged."

"What else are you guilty of?"

"Maybe I should be asking you that question."

A thin sweat broke out over her brow. "What do you mean?"

"What secrets does an FBI agent have to hide?"

"Classified ones."

He leaned closer. "Dangerous ones?"

She leaned forward. "_Very_ dangerous."

His lips parted. "_Show me_."

The distance became zero.

Their lips crashed together- passionately, desperately. The kiss was much deeper this time than the previous evening. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. He wrapped his around her waist. Their mouths danced frantically, moving in perfect harmony. He stepped forward and allowed her to pull him into the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

Just inside the door, Emily quickly lowered her arm for a split second to drop her bag on the floor, quickly replacing it. All rational thought had left her mind; the feeling in her stomach exploded and she felt a warm feeling spread throughout the lower regions of her body.

Scott immediately dropped the gym bag next to her purse. Replacing his arm, he lifted her slightly upwards and pushed her against the wall. She reciprocated by wrapping her legs around his waist. He broke the kiss and placed his lips against her neck, tracing a line right down to her chest. Emily let out a moan and tilted her head towards the ceiling. She could feel him press against her, felt his hardness against her sex. It drove her over the edge.

She grabbed hold of the sides of his jacket, pushed it back over his shoulders. He quickly shrugged it off and took her in his arms; her lithe body was still evident underneath her suit jacket. He pushed the jacket over her shoulders. She shrugged out of it and quickly undid the safety on her weapon harness, letting it fall to the floor.

Scott traced his mouth from her neck to her collar bone. He moved his hands upwards and undid the top button on her white blouse. Before he could continue, Emily quickly reached up and yanked it open, sending buttons flying everywhere. He pushed it over her shoulders, revealing her black lace bra.

Even though she seemed to shine like an angel in the low light, Scott wasn't satisfied. He lifted her and quickly carried her over to the bed. She crushed her mouth against his and pulled him down on top of her. Reaching over to the table, she felt around until she hit the light switch, illuminating the room in the soft glow and allowing both of them to get a good look at each other.

Emily looked up into his green eyes, saw his blond hair and deep complexion. Her heart began pounding in her chest. _My God, he's __**gorgeous**_.

Scott looked down into her dark brown eyes, saw her black hair sprawled everywhere on the white pillow, her creamy skin which contrasted wonderfully with her dark bra. _Damn, she's a __**goddess**_.

Their brief pause quickly ended. Emily watched Scott abruptly pulled his white shirt over his head. She sat up and crushed her lips against his, gradually moving down his smooth jawline to his neck while she ran her hands over his bare hairless chest, flicked his nipples. He wasn't as chiseled or as muscular as, say, Morgan or some of the men she'd dated, but he was lean and firm. She felt another tingle, this time dancing down her spine.

Returning the favour, Scott placed his finger on the back of her neck and slowly, teasingly, traced them down. He felt her breathe in deeply as he reached the clasp of her bra; he reached behind her and, with surprising ease, managed to unclasp it immediately.

Emily felt him pause, and taking advantage of the momentary distraction, wrapped her legs around him and flipped them over so she was now on top. Looking down into his surprised eyes, she reached up and slid her bra off her shoulders, losing the last part of her shield on her upper body.

Scott stopped for a moment, staring – no, _admiring_- her beauty. Her creamy white breasts weren't especially large, but unlike Suzy's they were natural, something which made her even more beautiful in his mind. He was about to reach up and take them in his hands when she suddenly leaned down over him. Her face was barely an inch away from his, her eyes locked into his own.

Her lips parted. "_Now."_

The barrier of caution collapsed.

Scott reached up and brought her head down towards his, crushing their mouths together. She returned the favour, grabbing his hands and bringing them to her breasts, pressing him against them, making him mead them. Gone was the cautious tenderness, replaced with raw, animalistic desire.

With a growl, Scott reached down and unzipped her pants. She kicked off her shoes as he yanked them down, pulled them off. Emily sat up, pulled off his shoes and socks, undid his belt, pulled off his jeans, tossed them across the room. He was reaching for his boxers when she grabbed hold of them and yanked them down. Scott literally groaned as his erection, trapped so painfully up until this point, was released. He barely repressed a moan as he felt her hot breath grace across the swollen head. He felt more aroused now than he ever had in his life.

Emily stared down at his erect member and felt a shudder of pleasure pass through her body. It had been a long time since she'd last been with a man; she couldn't remember any of them well enough to estimate how Scott measured up against them, but that thought quickly passed from her head.

Leaning forward over him again, she took Scott's hands and placed them on her hips. Gently, she guided them down until they were at the top of her panties. She paused and felt his fingers brush over the top of them, then slide just inside. Their eyes met for a brief second before she gave them the slightest push downwards. He slid them down past her thighs. She blindly wriggled them down to her calves and kicked them off.

Now completely naked, the two took a brief second to take in the sight of their new lovers. Pressing her hands against his shoulders, Emily positioned herself over him. Scott looked down her tight firm body to her womanhood. The pink flesh contrasted wonderfully with her creamy white skin. The tiny slit in the middle seemed to glisten in the light.

Their eyes met again; green and brown embraced as she lifted herself over him. Feeling his warm body against hers made a tiny rumble echo throughout her ass. A mini-orgasm? She didn't stop to think about it.

"Now, dammit," she growled.

A smirk appeared on his face. "Make me."

She started to respond, but didn't. Instead, she reacted physically. She released the weight of her legs and descended downwards – just as he pressed upwards.

Iron parted velvet.

Dual moans of absolute pleasure filled the small room.

Emily felt him penetrate deep inside her… deeper… deeper… until the base of his shaft brushed right up against her stimulated clit.

"OH, _**FUCK!**_" She threw her head back as a wave of pleasure so strong flooded through her that her whole body trembled. Her outburst shocked her – she rarely used language like that, even in private. The censor on all things rational had been lifted, though, and profanity was the last concern on her mind.

Slowly, they began moving in unison, hips bucking, pelvises grinding. Emily pressed her hands against his chest and moaned in pleasure; her downward plunge matched perfectly with his upward press. She felt a layer of sweat break out over her body. Never in her life could she remember having a feeling as good as this, certainly not from a man. It seemed like with every thrust, he penetrated deeper into her, filling every inch. She could feel every vein in his penis brush right against her g-spot, the tip of the head right against her womb.

Scott lay on the bed, his chest heaving in and out, pressing her hands up and down as she rode him. He couldn't believe how good it felt. He had always used condoms with all his previous sexual partners. Without it, the amount of stimulation was mind-blowing. He felt the immense heat of her canal clamp down on his manhood like a vice. Her movements up and down were growing faster and faster, increasing the waves of pleasure ten-fold. He could feel the stimulations intensify, and made the effort to keep up with her. His hands found her breasts, his fingers going to her nipples.

"Oh, _**GOD**_!"

The two bodies moved together as one – joined, connected. Drenched in sweat, they remained together unyieldingly, their forms moving in perfect unison. Emily's hands slipped from his chest to his thighs, gripping his well-defined quads as she reared back and bucked her hips harder, increasing her stimulation even more. Scott's hands moved down to her washboard stomach, taking her rocking hips in his hands, forcing their combined thrusts even harder against each other. He looked up into her face; her long black hair flew everywhere, a good bit of it sticking to her skin. She looked wild, untamed… perfect. Scott groaned as wave after wave of pleasure rocked through him, each one seemingly bigger than the last.

And so it continued. Seconds seemed like hours. Minutes seemed like days. Neither one let up an inch. For what seemed like forever, they moved together; raw, animalistic passion blocked out every thought from their mind. For what seemed like forever, not a coherent word was spoken. Animalistic grunts, moans of ecstasy, profanity and references to God took their place.

Then Emily felt it - the spark of warmth deep inside her. As the stimulation against her vaginal walls increased, it grew stronger, warmer. She recognized it immediately.

Only this time, it was coming at her with ten times the force than the one she had the night before.

Beneath her, Scott let out a loud groan. The merciless assault on his shaft was coming full head. He had never in his wildest dreams believed he would experience such pleasure – it was like all his times with Suzy put together and then multiplied by a hundred. He could already feel the familiar feeling from deep inside him; his testicles surged and throbbed in anticipation.

Looking up, he saw a different look come into her eye as she leaned over him. He recognized it right away; that look of desperation, of being on the brink. Except this one was about a thousand times more intense than any other one he'd seen.

Their words came in short breaths.

"I'm…going to…" Emily gasped

"Now?"

"Yes…"

"So…I."

"Yes..."

His muscles tightened. "Sure?"

Her eyes widened. "Right…"

"Now?"

"_**YES!**_"

A double guttural moan filled the room as they both reached their climax together. Emily practically screamed in ecstasy as she came, the hard warm flood slamming throughout her entire body. It was larger than any orgasm she'd ever had, reaching up to her eyes and down to the tips of her toes. She felt it reverberate through her bones, her muscles, her organs… everywhere. Below her, Scott roared as his own orgasm took hold, rising out of the depths and exploding in grand fashion – harder and faster than at any other time. He grabbed hold of her ass and pressed deeper into her as another wave of pleasure came. Another. Another. Instead of reducing, each seemed stronger than the last. Their grips on each other increased as well; flesh turned ghost white as fingers dug in deep. Nails clawed at skin, leaving angry, red scratches. They clung to each other, desperate, unwilling to let go. Their bodies continued to move in unison - each milking the other for as much as possible.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, their climaxes both lessened, then subsided. Emily collapsed limply on top of him. Both drew in deep breaths, their whole bodies covered in sweat. No more words were spoken that night – there was no need for them.

Then Emily slid her body slightly to the side so she was half on Scott, half on the mattress. He slid his arm around her and pulled her close to his body. She put her arm over him and rested her head against his chest. If either of them had anything to say to each other, they kept quiet. What followed was silence, interrupted only by the dual heavy breaths of deep, peaceful sleep.

And as he slid gently out of her in his state of unconsciousness, the walls to her sex slammed shut, trapping the result of their desperate, fervent passions deep inside.

**TBC…**


	17. I-16

**A/N: I've recently found out through research that New York's (not the city) proper full name is New York State, not the State (or state) of New York. This will be how it is written in the future. I apologize for the error.**

**A/N: Seo-yeon is one of the most popular names for girls in South Korea. It is also one of the most popular names that South Korean women switch to.**

Angie was nineteen years old.

At nineteen, a girl was supposed to be having the time of her life. Travelling. Going to parties with her friends. Checking out which guys were available.

Angie had experienced almost none of these things. She couldn't even have an American name. She wasn't allowed – it went too much against _tradition_.

Maybe it had been the name on her prescription that had rubbed the pharmacist the wrong way. Maybe if she used the name she was called everywhere outside home, things would have gone differently. Unfortunately, the one on the prescription was her birth name, and couldn't be changed to anything else.

Then again, if she were a native born American, she too might pause at handing out a prescription for birth control to someone named Kim Seo-yeon.

As the daughter of Korean immigrants, she always knew she would grow up having at least part of the old country instilled in her. She could handle that; the speaking of mostly Korean at home, being expected to help out in the family grocery store – because in America, there just _always_ had to be a grocery store somewhere in an Asian family – the natural expectation of no lower that 99.99% in all her courses at school. It was all part of the immigrant experience and she accepted that.

What she did _not_ expect was being expected to embrace those traditions – even those that were dying off in Korea – and make them the central points of her life in the United States.

Angie was always fascinated by the diversity she had encountered among her peers at college - kids of every different race, ethnicity and background all coming together in one setting. But while all her friends were out enjoying themselves – going to movies, hanging out at the mall, partying on weekends – she was either at home studying or manning the cash register of the family business. And not just some or even most of the time. _All _of it.

Angie didn't have many memories of Korea since her family moved from Seoul when she was just seven years old, but she was pretty sure most of the traditions her parents followed religiously were on their way to being extinct. All in all, Angie could have passed for a typical American teenager – even losing her accent and sounding like born and bred New Yorker - but she was still told what to do right down to the route home from college she was to walk. Parties were a big no-no, as was anything that could be classified as 'hanging out'.

And dating? She scoffed. _What about dating? Don't talk to us about dating._ That was the extent of the conversation she had with her parents. No wonder she had run out of the pharmacy after the man behind the counter screamed at her. If she couldn't stand up to her own parents about merely hanging out with boys, how the hell was she going to stand up to a total stranger about a vital tool to protect herself? She raised a hand to her face; her tears had long ago stopped but she still felt the dampness on her skin. _Asshole_. Sometimes she really hated people, even her own parents.

It was only during walks alone like these where she could feel truly free and out of her parents' grasp. The vastness of New York never ceased to amaze her. Sure, she missed her home back in Seoul – even though she talked with her family there all the time via email and Facebook – but here in America, she was awestruck by the lights, the sounds and the experiences of being a New Yorker.

Angie checked her watch and stared. _Nine twenty-five?_

"Crap!" She was supposed to have been home ten minutes ago and it was a good fifteen minute trip back even if she double-timed it. She did an abrupt about turn and started quickly walking back in the direction she came, already hearing her mothers' lecture in her head about "_how hard your father works to make a living in this country."_ This would quickly be followed by _"why can't you at least make an effort to help around here?"_ And to finish it all off would be the good old _"sometimes I think you're completely helpless."_ This would be followed by her mother's trademark deep sigh of disappointment – loud, long and exasperated - as though otherwise Angie wouldn't understand the depths of her helplessness.

_Sure Mom, I am helpless_, she thought. _Helpless at being the perfect stereotypical Asian girl in the Land of Opportunity like you would like me to be. And absolutely helpless at becoming the world's greatest doctor or mathematician before I graduate college. Yep, definitely helpless at all that._

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her white hoodie, she hurried along the sidewalk. A gust of wind brushed up against her face, the coolness spreading across the not-so-dry tears lines on her skin. She shivered and quickened her pace.

The sidewalk was not overly well-lit, only enough that she could see where she was going. A line of cars lined the road alongside her; they looked slightly ominous to her – dark and abandoned.

It was only when she approaching a large light blue van that she heard any signs of other life around. The van doors were open and as she went to walk around them, she heard the sound of something knocking against the ground followed by a man's voice. "Damn it."

Angie narrowed her eyes as she turned towards the back of the van. A man was standing there dressed in a blue sweater and jeans. His long dark hair hung down from underneath the Yankees cap on his head. His face was unshaven, giving him an unkempt look. A large night table was on the ground in front of him on its side. Looking closer, Angie could see the white plaster cast wrapped around his right hand. His arm hung loosely at his side, making it quite useless for any heavy lifting.

She paused for a moment, her mind running through various options. She had always been told not to talk to strangers, especially scruffy-looking men in a place like New York. And it seemed like a very unusual time to be doing some moving. But as she looked at the cast on his hand, she couldn't help the small feeling of sympathy trickle through her. She could imagine the sense of loneliness and isolation the man could be feeling right now; she knew it well enough. Whether it was this sentiment or the fact that she always tried to see the good in people – asshole pharmacists excluded – she decided to act against her better judgement.

"Moving in or out?" she asked.

The man turned towards her and gave an embarrassed smile. "Uh, looks like moving nowhere right now."

Angie could detect the twang in his voice and gave a smile; Southern accents on men were a huge turn-on for her. "Weird time to be doing it."

"Yeah well, this was the only time I could. I just got off work an hour ago and my girl… ex-girlfriend said I had to have all my stuff out of the apartment by tomorrow morning if I didn't want it tossed in the street."

"Ouch. That sucks."

"Tell me about it. My brother was supposed to be here half an hour ago to help me move everything. _Don't worry,_ he said. _I won't leave you hanging,_ he said. Shoulda known better. Todd wouldn't know being on time if it slapped him right in the face."

Angie giggled. "Know what that's like."

"Yeah." The man smiled. "So now I've got a few hours to get everything loaded and hauled away before Janine has _me_ hauled away for trespassing like she says. Don't know if she can, but I'd rather not risk it. Woman's got a temper like a rabid dog."

"Must be difficult with that." She pointed to the cast.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just a little bit," he laughed.

"What happened?"

"My own fault. I was rock climbing down in Arizona and thought I'd be a daredevil by scaling a rock way above my experience level." He rubbed his hand along it. "Got a humiliated ex-girlfriend and three more weeks in this thing to show for it. So now I'm stuck doing this all by myself."

"Would you like me to give you a hand?" Angie asked.

His eyes lit up. "_Would_ you? I mean, I couldn't really ask for your help."

"You got it. I know what it's like to feel all alone with no one to help."

"Great!" He pointed to the side of the table furthest away from the van. "If you could lift this end up, I should be able to pull it in the rest of the way."

She obliged, grabbed hold of the table and, lifting it up, pushed it towards the interior of the van while he tried to pull it with his good arm. She was a fairly petite girl but the table wasn't all that heavy so she had no real problems with it. Unfortunately, with only one arm, he was unable to hold it up long enough to get into the van. After several failed attempts, he let out a deep breath and wiped his brow. "Remind me to kill my brother when I see him."

"I'm sorry," Angie shrugged. "I tried my best. I don't what else I can do."

A pensive look came over his face. "Hmm… well, maybe…"

"What?"

"If you could help pull the table into the van, I might be able to push it up with my shoulder."

"So… you need to me to come where you are now?"

"It shouldn't take too long." He shook his head as he stepped out of the back. "Ten seconds, if that."

Something in Angie's brain started to go off – a warning signal that told her that something wasn't right. But looking at the table and deciding that it would be a very simple act that would take barely anything, she ignored it. Against her better judgment, she climbed into the back of the van and lifted the table up so it was standing only on the legs on the ground. The man pushed up against it, using his legs, shoulder and chest. It was awkward and unsteady but they were able to slide it in. He stepped up inside, leaned on the table with his good arm and gave a tired but thankful smile. "Thanks! You have no idea how grateful I am."

"No problem. Happy to help," Angie replied, subconsciously moving towards the exit.

"Alright well, have a good night!"

"Thanks," she said with a silent sense of relief. "You too."

She turned her back towards him, moved forward and, putting one foot on the ground, prepared to step out of the van.

A pair of hands grabbed hold of her – one on her chest, one over her mouth – and dragged her back in.

Sheer terror and panic exploded within Angie. She kicked out wildly and screamed as loudly as she could, which produced little more than a muffled sound. She felt herself being hauled to the back and struggled frantically to free herself.

A terrific blow slammed into the back of her head. Angie saw a bright yellow flash as she crumpled to the floor, and then nothing but darkness.

* * *

><p>Paul removed the cast from his arm and tossed it aside. He bent down and – using both arms without any difficulty - pulled the unconscious form of the girl to the back of the van, his feet clattering against the bottom as he strode forward and quickly closed the back doors.<p>

He didn't want to attract attention. He had far too much to do over the next day; he couldn't afford to be interrupted.

Not when God's mission was still incomplete.

He knew the moment he saw her she was another one God wanted him to take, another sinner that needed to be cleansed.

His mother had taught him that. The world was an ugly place, she'd said, filled with filth and sin. Even his own flesh and blood revelled in its stench.

_But not you, Paul – not you. You're special. You're God's chosen one. Now show your mother just how special you are._

Well, he'd started, and he intended to finish his work. He'd promised his mother – and God Himself- that he would complete it no matter how long it took.

It was not an easy task given how many heathens there were in just this one city. But he didn't expect the Lord's mission to be easy. There was no shortage of sinners that needed to be cleansed, that was for sure. His mother had warned him about all of them; the coloureds, the followers of Satanic religions, the godless. It was women, though, that she had truly focused on. Tramps, all of them, she'd said – whores, sluts, witches, instruments of the Devil. Except her, of course. But then again, she was not a woman, but a saint.

Kneeling down beside the girl, he produced a roll of duct tape. He taped her ankles together and her hands behind her back before sealing her mouth shut. Going through her pockets, he found her Smartphone and wallet and opened the latter up to see her learner's permit. His eyes automatically went to her date of birth.

_Nineteen – perfect._ It was just a bit older than his sister was when she'd embraced the Devil; about time he could make up for that by catching a witch before they got out of hand. As he moved to put the wallet to the side, a piece of white paper fell out. Picking it up, he could see it was a prescription for birth control pills. He could feel a white hot rage build up inside him.

_Killing babies, that's what they're for_. That's what his mother had told him when he was eight years old. _All part of the atheists' plan to destroy the God-fearers. Every time a woman takes one, she is disobeying God by killing His children. _

He looked down is disgust at the girl. This slant-eyed _slut_ was killing hundreds of God's children all so she could whore around with every man she came across. They were a disease!

Well, if there was one thing his mother taught him, it was that any disease can be wiped out by the hand of God. And that's exactly what he was - a hand, a tool with which God struck down those who went up against him. Like any good tool, he had the skills to accomplish the job.

Just as he had a few hours earlier. A sick smile spread over his face as he vividly recalled the brief but memorable 'job' he'd done. It had been way too brief - not nearly enough time for him to enjoy himself – so he'd been forced to find a replacement.

And oh, what a great replacement he had found.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he turned on the ignition and smoothly pulled away from the curb, causing the two driver's licences in the passenger seat to shift ever so slightly. The low light just in front of the rear-view mirror passed over them.

The smiling faces of Suzy McMillan and Chris Jordan flashed visibly for a moment and then disappeared back into the darkness.

**TBC…**


	18. I-17

**A/N: Longer chapters coming soon!**

The faint rays of light coming in from the window were the first thing Emily sensed when she came out the unconscious state known as sleep. Her eyes flickered, then cracked open, and then _slowly_ opened up. Still very much in the throes of sleep, it was an incredibly difficult process – she felt like she was bench-pressing five-hundred pound barbells with her eyelids. Finally she managed to open them up all the way without them crashing like busted garage doors all the way back down.

It took her a few moments to become aware of her surroundings. She was first aware of lying on her side staring up at both the window and the edge of the white ceiling. It wasn't her ceiling back home, that much she knew right away because hers was still in need of repair from the cracks the landlord refused to fix until she paid her rent. Then she remembered that she was on a case… on a BAU case… where? What were they trying to solve? A serial rapist? Serial killer? No, terrorists! They were trying to catch a serial bomber in… in… what was- New York! That was it!

Now she remembered where she was, but she still felt like something was off. _Please tell me I didn't get drunk_. She'd resolved that the one thing her colleagues would never find out about her – under ANY circumstance – was how she was when she had had one too many drinks. She would willingly tell them every other embarrassing aspect of her life - and there were A LOT - before she showed **that** one. But she didn't have a headache or the all too familiar 'I'm about to hurl my guts out' feeling she normally did when she was hung-over. So that was off the table, thank God, but she still didn't feel quite normal. What could it be?

Her head may not have a pounding post-party feeling but there was something fuzzy about it. Not a bad feeling, more like a warm one. Far from making her feel rotten, she felt better waking up than she had in a long time. In fact, the warm feeling stretched from her head all the way down her body. Nice as it was, she still had no idea what was causing it. Emily adjusted her head to get a better view, pausing when she caught sight of her bare arm.

_Where's my shirt?_

Her eyes travelled up her limb as she wondered whether she had somehow shoved her sleeve up to her shoulder during the night. That idea quickly changed as she saw more and more skin exposed the further up she looked, until finally her neck protested against the downward strain. Emily didn't feel this, though; she was far too occupied staring at her shoulder where her arm joined up with her body.

She wasn't wearing a shirt. She wasn't wearing **anything**.

_What the hell?_ She didn't remember planning to sleep _au naturel_ last night. What was going on? Had she been so exhausted that she'd undressed and then collapsed into bed without putting on her nightwear? What other explanation could there be? The temperature in the room wasn't nearly high enough for her to sleep in the nude. And yet, there was this gnawing feeling in her stomach that told her there was more to the story.

That's when she noticed something strange about her arm – well, both of them actually. They both had this fuzzy tingly feeling all throughout, but for clearly different reasons. Her left arm was tucked underneath her body and had the pins-and-needles feeling her brain was sending to tell her that the blood flow to that arm was being restricted. But there was another similar feeling in her right arm, the one that she knew she wasn't lying on because she had just seen it. It was the exact same feeling that she was feeling in her head. So what could-?

Emily's thoughts halted as she moved her hand ever so slightly and felt the smooth warm sensation beneath her skin. It felt familiar to her, as though she'd experienced it recently – very recently. She already knew what it was before her eyes locked onto it; seeing it was a mere confirmation.

It was a bare, hairless chest. A very _masculine_ bare, hairless chest.

Emily started to panic, her mind sent into a whirlwind. Had she picked up a random stranger somewhere? But that was impossible, she'd never do that. But then… had she somehow fallen into bed with… with a _teammate_? If that was the case… oh God, she couldn't imagine trying to look him – whoever 'he' was – in the eye ever again. She had no idea what she would say, but she could just imagine what Hotch would say when he found out. Unless… _NO!_ She couldn't have slept with Hotch. That was just outside the realm of imagination! So then… **who was she lying next to **_**in bed?**_

Summoning all her courage, Emily took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to do the one thing she had avoided doing since the moment she realized she wasn't alone. She paused for a moment, steeled her resolve, and then swivelled her eyes upward towards her companion's face.

The moment she did, she felt her insides freeze as though someone had dropped an open can of liquid nitrogen into her stomach. She wished - wished desperately - that she hadn't looked at all. Or failing that, that it really had been a male teammate she was all but snuggling next to - even Hotch. She could have at least prepared herself for that.

What she _couldn't_ have prepared for was seeing _**Scott Jackson**_ still lying asleep next to her as she rested her arm – and her head, she realized – on top of his torso.

Memories came flooding back to her. The terrible experience at the pharmacy… the frustration of not finding her room… seeing Scott Jackson in the corridor… him getting extremely close… kissing him frantically… being on top of him… making love to him with every fibre of her being… coming to climax with him that had warmed every part of her soul and body…

Just then, Emily saw that his arm was wrapped around shoulders, drawing her next to his equally naked body. In this position, they were practically one person. All she had to do to break that connection was lift her arm. Yet although she tried to, for some inexplicable reason, she just couldn't force herself to do it.

It was, of course, at that moment – that very moment she couldn't break the bond – when the man to whom she was joined opened his eyes. A look on confusion came into them first, at the unfamiliar surroundings, before settling on the woman who was now staring up at him.

There was a brief pause. Then a familiar smirk spread over his lips right before they parted.

"Good morning."

* * *

><p>Scott had woken up in his life to a lot of different sights and experiences. Some of them had been not so good – the aftermath of the last time he'd gotten shitfaced came to mind – and some of them had been great, such as waking up to Suzy underneath the covers giving him a pleasurable morning treat. But none of them could compare to this morning waking up next to a beautiful female FBI agent staring at him with the most comical stunned look on her face. It was so comical he couldn't resist adding a teasing tone to his morning greeting.<p>

It was less comical in the two seconds that followed when Emily Prentiss – in one movement- flipped him over onto his stomach and pinned his arm painfully behind his back the same way she had done to Chris the previous night.

"OW! Hey, sorry! I didn't know you weren't a morning person!"

She didn't laugh or ease the pressure. "You've got one chance and one chance only to leave here with your arm intact. Better choose wisely."

Scott raised his free hand in surrender; the bolts of electricity racing to his nerves told him it was the smartest thing to do. "Alright, I got it."

"What did you give me?"

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Last night, what did you slip me? Rohypnol?"

Scott hesitated for a moment, certain he'd heard wrong. "Wha- What?"

"You know what I mean. The date-rape drug."

Scott was horrified. "What? NO! God, no! I didn't slip you anything!"

"Wrong answer," she growled, tightening her hold. Scott yelped as another bolt of electricity shot through his arm. "Try again."

"It's the truth, I swear! I'd never drug a woman!"

"Then how do you explain what happened last night?"

Scott paused for a moment. What _had_ happened last night? Well, he knew what had happened; he just wasn't all that sure how it came about. "I don't know. It just did."

"'Just did'," Emily repeated. "That what you say to all women afterwards?"

"No, I just… Look, even if I wanted to slip you something – which I didn't – how could I have? You weren't eating or drinking anything when we met and I doubt I could do it without you noticing. I mean, do you really think you would let me give you a shot of something without acting the same way as now?"

Emily was silent. Her mind raced like a tornado as she digested all the information. Could he be telling the truth? It didn't seem possible. Yet there was nothing to indicate it wasn't – was there? "I don't like liars," she said, deciding on giving it one more test. "Liars piss me off. And when I'm pissed off, things tend to get broken. Like bones." She grasped his limb even tighter to make her point. "You sure what you said wasn't just a big pile of bullshit?"

"I've got an FBI agent threatening to break my arm," Scott said, trying not to wince in pain. "You really think I'd screw around with something like this?"

Emily no longer knew what to think. She had no reason to trust him – in her experience people would say anything to shift the blame off themselves if they knew they did something wrong. And in cases of sexual assault, she had known more than enough men who were quick to blame the woman when they got caught with their pants down, sometimes literally.

On the other hand, did she have any reason to believe he was lying? Emily wasn't psychic but she was a trained criminal profiler and could usually get a sense of a person when she met them. Scott Jackson was an arrogant young man, that much was undisputable, but she just didn't get the kind of vibe from him that she normally got from someone who was a legitimate predator. Could it be that he was telling the truth?

But then, that would mean…

Emily released her hold on Scott's arm. Scott groaned as the threat of snapped bones ended and the blood started to flow normally. He barely had the time to turn around to thank her for not removing his drinking hand before the door to the bathroom slammed in his face.

* * *

><p>Emily stood in front of the mirror, drawing deep breaths in and out. She looked at her reflection, looking for anything that might indicate what had happened.<p>

Her first thought upon waking up to find Scott beside her was that he had somehow physically forced her to stay; she could see faint bruising in the shape of fingertips on her hips and, as she turned around, on her ass. But that theory just didn't make sense – she would never in her life fall asleep beside, let alone curl up next to, a man who had just forced himself on her.

Could he have drugged her then, as she asked him? That didn't seem possible either; as he'd said, she'd had no food or drink with her when she met him that he could spike and no indication that he had injected her with anything. She wasn't experiencing any symptoms either; even if the drug didn't show up in a blood or urine test, there always telltale signs in the victim afterwards. Besides, most date-rape drugs were designed to make the victim forget large parts of the assault, ostensibly so they couldn't identify their attackers. Emily racked her brain, trying to come up with any parts of the night she couldn't remember, but ironically couldn't recall any. In fact, it was the exact opposite that was true – she could remember literally every second of the time she had first seen him in the hallway to the time she had laid down beside him. And the feeling she felt was not one of violation - quite the contrary.

But that meant…

Emily felt a strange feeling in her stomach. The realization was now just starting to creep over her. According to all the evidence, there was only one conclusion – as a trained federal agent – she could come up with…

**She'd had consensual sex with a witness to a federal crime.**

_Shit. Shit. SHIT!_ Emily felt a new sense of panic come over her. Had they used protection? She was on the Pill, that much she knew, but she couldn't remember them using a condom. So she'd not only had sex with him - _she'd had_ _**unprotected **__sex with him_. She knew nothing about his history. What if he had AIDS or herpes or some other STD?

_Shit. Double shit._ What if anybody had heard her? The walls were supposed to be soundproof, but how soundproof were they? Her room was right next to Hotch's. If he had heard–

Emily's eyes widened in realization. _Shit, what time was it?!_ She was supposed to meet the rest of them at eight o'clock! Had she overslept?

Emily glanced at the bathroom counter, but upon finding no clock cursed herself for forgetting she was in a hotel and not everything was done the way she did back at home. Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself before taking a deep breath and opening up the door.

Back in the bedroom, she found Scott rummaging around on the floor, searching for his clothes among a tangled pile of both male and female attire. He'd already put on his boxers and socks and was just grabbing his jeans. Emily stared at his bare back and arms covered in red scratch marks; apparently she'd done a number on him as well.

He glanced up as she entered the room and looked at the clock. Seven thirty-five. She breathed a silent sigh of relief that she hadn't missed anything before turning her attention to Scott, but wasn't able to get a word out before he said, "You okay?"

That caught her off guard and for at least the second time in as many days she found herself temporarily at a loss for words because of the man. This time, however, she recovered quicker. "You'd damn well better be honest with me. Are you clean?"

"Clean?" he repeated.

"Well unless you put on some type of magical invisible condom, we didn't use any protection last night."

"Oh! Yeah. Yeah, don't worry, I'm clean." He stopped and stared at her, as though coming to a realization himself. "Are you?" he then asked uncertainly.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Well, if I wasn't, do you really think I'd be asking you?"

"I just -"

Scott was cut off in mid-sentence by a sharp rap at the door.

"Get back!" Emily hissed, gesturing for him to move out of the line of sight from the door. She moved swiftly across the room, stepping over or sidestepping the clothes they had dropped near the entrance. She cast an eye remorsefully over her blouse and the buttons that had once been attached to it scattered around like berries off a tree – one of only two good blouses she'd brought down – as well as her weapon harness with the still-loaded gun, which lay carelessly dropped against the wall. So much for acting like a professional agent.

Emily looked out the peephole, a mix of both relief and nervousness coming over her upon seeing who it was. She opened up the door a crack - just enough to show her face. "Hey, what's up?"

JJ stood outside, already fully dressed and looking wide awake. Then again, that really wasn't a surprise; she'd had plenty of practice as the mother of a young child.

The blonde raised an eyebrow. "Not much. You okay?"

"Yeah, of course!" Emily did her best to sound normal; aka – _not_ like she had just woken up with a near stranger. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look a little dishevelled."

Emily shrugged. "Well, I doubt you look the best first thing in the morning either, right?"

JJ gave her a look that told Emily she didn't fully buy that, but thankfully didn't press further. "Right," she said finally. "Look, Hotch wants us to meet out front ASAP."

"Why?"

"There was a double homicide a few blocks west of here last night. Based on preliminary reports, he thinks it may be our UnSub."

"Two together a day after his last?" Emily was surprised. "He's escalating quickly. Do we know who the victims are?"

"A man and woman shot in a car. NYPD has already secured the scene and are waiting for us."

Emily nodded. "Alright, I'll be down in fifteen, twenty. Tell Hotch I'm on my way."

JJ nodded and looked like she was about to step away when she looked down and paused. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah! Why do you think I'm not?"

"Well for one thing, I've never known you to just toss your gun on the floor." JJ nodded towards the ground. Emily followed her gaze to her feet and silently cursed herself for not moving the weapon out of the line of sight. She just thanked God that Scott's stuff was on the blocked side.

"Oh, yeah. It's nothing. I was so tired last night I just dropped it the first place I could. Stupid move, I know but…" She shrugged.

"Did you get much sleep? I mean with your head and all."

"My head?"

"Yeah, you know - that headache you said you had. Did it keep you up?"

Once again, Emily was caught off guard. She'd completely forgotten about her headache – mostly because there'd been no hint of it since she got up. "Oh, no. I fell asleep fairly quickly. Guess I was too exhausted for even that to keep me awake," she laughed. "But I'm fine now."

JJ nodded. "Alright well, see you down soon."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"What about for Strauss?" JJ jokingly asked with a smile.

"Maybe if she got that stick out of her ass."

This time the blonde laughed out loud. "See you down there."

"Bye." Emily closed the door and turned around. Scott was standing there, adjusting his shirt over his torso, having put on everything else that was within throwing distance of the bed. "So is Strauss your boss?" he asked with a smirk. "Tough break, if that's the case. Sounds like we got something in comm -"

In two steps, Emily had crossed the space between them. The look on her face immediately wiped the smirk off his. "What?"

"This is what you're going to do," Emily said in a voice cold enough to cause frostbite. "Starting now, you are going to get all your stuff. After that, you're to go out and down the side stairs at the opposite end of the hallway to the main floor and leave by the back door. Whichever way you need to go, start walking but don't get back on the main street until you are at least a block away from here."

She got within an inch of his face, and this time there was no teasing or sexual tension. "And you are never – _and I mean __**never**_ – to come back here again. If you do, I won't hesitate to arrest you for interfering with a federal investigation and throw your ass in jail. _Is. That. Clear?_"

Scott was shocked at the abrupt change in personality. A minute ago, she'd been laughing and joking with the other woman at the door. Now she was giving him a look he felt could kill him ten times over. It was scary, he had to admit. Far scarier than he ever would have imagined with her. Swallowing hard, he stood up straight and said with as strong and neutral a tone as he could, "Clear."

"Get out of here." Emily indicated with her head to the door. Scott walked over to the exit, picked up his jacket and sports bag and opened the door. He had barely passed through the exit and was just turning – for what he didn't know, say something maybe – when the door slammed firmly in his face.

He stood there for a moment, staring at it in slack-jawed wonder. Then, giving a sigh, he started walking towards the back stairs.

On the other side, Emily leaned up against the door with her back. She no longer knew what to think. Everything that she thought she knew about everything had been turned upside down. If someone told her the sky was green with orange polka dots, she probably would have believed it.

Deftly striding forward, she headed for the bathroom. A hot shower, she hoped, would scrub whatever mystery layer of dirt/contamination off of her and return her to a sense of normalcy.

She couldn't have known then that that possibility was long gone.

**TBC…**


	19. I-18

**A/N: **_**The Texas Chainsaw Massacre**_** is a 2003 horror film starring Jessica Biel and is the remake of the original 1974 film.**

* * *

><p>"Time of death around… ten to twelve hours ago, I'd say. Both of them killed around the same time," Dr. Chao looked up. "I think you can rule out accidental death."<p>

Brighton sighed heavily. "What was your first clue?"

"Well, the multiple gunshot wounds are pretty good."

"That was a rhetorical question."

"Oh, I know."

"Really?"

She smiled. "I've been doing this for longer than you think. I know when a cop is pissed off at a case and not me. If it were real, I'd know."

"How?"

"Because you'd be cursing and swearing more than truck driver."

"What makes you think I'm not just getting warmed up?"

"My husband's family is from small-town Indiana. I know the Midwestern way, trust me."

Hotch interjected, "What is the precise nature of the gunshot wounds?"

Chao turned back to the crime scene – a 2002 black Honda Civic – and explained her findings. The driver's window was shattered with multiple bullet holes and angry cracks leading from the points of entry all over the pane. Inside the car, the windshield and much of the front interior was stained with blood. In the driver's seat was a young dark-haired male slouched over to the right; his face was a proverbial crimson mask with obvious gunshot wounds to the head and neck. The passenger, a young female brunette, was lying with her head on his lap in a pool of blood. There were two obvious bullet wounds directly to her lower face. It was fairly clear that any of the shots could have been fatal and that killer wanted the job done.

"I'll tell you one thing, though," Chao remarked. "Whoever did it wasn't looking for a quick and clean kill. They wanted to make the driver, at least, suffer before he died."

"How can you tell?" Rossi asked, kneeling down beside the medical examiner.

Delicately, Chao pointed a finger just through the glass. "See the way she's laying? Notice anything peculiar about it?"

Rossi peered to where she was pointing. It took him a moment to distinguish anything about the man's lap that wasn't a red mess, but when he did he raised his eyebrow. "His fly's undone."

Chao nodded and stood up. "It's just a guess, but I doubt she was leaning over to help him zip it back up. Well, that and the fact that she's got his penis in her mouth."

"She was providing him with oral sex when the UnSub opened fire," Hotch surmised.

"Guy thought he was getting lucky. Guess it turned out to be bad luck," Rossi added.

"Touche," Chao said. "Oh and when I say in her mouth, I mean literally _in_ her mouth. One of the bullets went right through his penis and severed it while her head was in his lap. That may have been the bullet that killed her, but not him. Given enough time, he probably would have died from the blood loss had he not been shot in the head and neck."

"So much for safe sex," the ex-marine remarked dryly. He didn't notice Emily on the other side of the car tense up at his words. JJ, standing right next to her, was more observant; she stared at the older woman curiously, but decided to not say anything – for the moment.

"We have any idea who the victims are?" Hotch asked.

"There doesn't seem to be any ID on either of them," Morgan said, leaning into the vehicle on the other side. "No registration in the glove compartment either."

"Could be his way of taking trophies in this case," JJ suggested.

"Maybe. It's a New York license plate, so we'll run it and see what we come up with." Brighton responded.

"Way ahead of ya." Morgan produced his cell phone and walked a slight distance away.

Reid peered through the driver's window. "You know, if this is our UnSub, he's getting more varied in the way he executes his crimes and chooses his victims."

"How do you figure?"

"Normally with serial killers you see some kind of pattern that they very rarely deviate from. As far as we know, we have four victims so far - all of different backgrounds." He seemed thoughtful for a moment then looked up. "I think his killings are religious-based."

"Why? Because of the marking on the second victim? That's hardly concrete proof. There weren't any marking done to the first victim, and it doesn't look like he took the time with these."

"No, but think about it," Reid insisted. "With the male victims, he removed or destroyed their sexual body parts, which could stem from what he perceived to be sinful sexual conduct on their parts. With Ramos, it may have been the interracial aspect; with this male, it may have been a non-traditional or premarital sex act. Bridget Silver had her tongue ripped out, either because he saw it as a willing participant in these acts or in a symbolic gesture to silence her. I think it's likely he experienced an unhealthy sexual relationship when he was young, possibly incest, with a dominant adult. Mix that with a rigid religious upbringing where children were not meant to question anything and he could now be reflecting his suffering on other men."

"Silver was sexually assaulted and severely beaten," Emily recalled. "That could point to a lot of anger towards women, or possibly **a **woman. Maybe an abusive female relative?"

"Or a woman he was close to that he felt betrayed him in some way," Hotch suggested.

"They could be the same thing."

"But if this is about a pattern, he _has_ deviated from it somewhat," Rossi argued. "With the other victims, he took a body part from them. Even with the man here, even if he didn't take it, he removed it. But with the woman, he seems to have settled for just a regular killing."

"Which makes it likely he won't consider it a completed job," Reid said. "Because his pattern was interrupted, he'll feel he needs to rectify that and regain control. He's alternated male and female victims, making sure to take something away from them whenever possible. He was only able to complete half the job here."

"So he could be looking for a replacement to suit his needs," JJ followed.

"He may have already found one."

* * *

><p><em>Pain.<em>

_Head._

_Pain in the head._

_Dark._

Angie's brain was in the biological version of a fifty car pileup on a freeway – everything coming together at the exact same time in one massive collision.

At first she thought she still had her eyes closed when the darkness didn't fade away. But as she blinked repeatedly, she saw tiny, almost invisible flickers of light reflect off a hard, dark surface several yards away right in front of her.

The next thing she noticed was the pain in her shoulders. It sent a slow burn right through her muscles and nerves all the way down her arms. She went to adjust her position, and felt her arms come to a dead stop above her. She tried again and got the same result, so she looked up to see what was causing it – her hands were chained to a pipe about a foot above her head.

_What the hell?_ Confused, she began looking around her and soon found that her feet were largely dangling in mid-air with only her toes on the ground. She didn't know how long she had been in this position but her wrists felt raw and sore, as though they had been rubbing against the chain for some time. She tried to call out for someone but all that came out was a muffled sound. Then she tasted something stale and found she was biting into something that prevented her from closing her mouth, like a piece of cloth tied around her head.

Fear invaded Angie's brain. What they hell was she doing chained up and gagged in a dark room? What had happened? She cast her mind back, willing herself to find a logical answer. Then, suddenly, the memories came flooding back into her brain: the van, the man with the cast, trying to help him move furniture, being in the van, someone grabbing her from behind… and then nothing…

A wave of horror swept over the teen as she finally realized what was going on. She strained against the chains, twisted then back and forth in an effort to free herself; she only succeeded in rubbing the skin on her wrists raw.

"HELP!" she shouted. "Please! SOMEBODY _**HELP ME**_!"

But little more than muffled garble came out. And wherever she was, she soon realized, the walls were thick and solid; no one could hear her.

But then _she_ heard something. Footsteps.

It seemed like they were all around her at first – above, behind, below. But it soon became clear that wherever they were coming from, they were coming closer.

Coming towards her.

Angie's heart began to pound so hard, she thought it might jump right out of her chest. The steps grew louder and louder, then stopped. There was a momentary pause, and a loud CREAK echoed throughout the room as a door was pulled open about ten yards to her left, filling the area with light.

Angie squinted at the sudden contrast, blinking to try to adjust her eyes to the brightness. As her vision cleared, she looked towards the spot and froze as she saw the figure walk down a flight of wooden steps.

The first thing she noticed was that the man wasn't wearing a cast anymore. In his now perfect working hand, he was carrying a large water jug that looked as if weighed at least 20 lbs. His face was the same, but there was something in it she had not noticed the previous night, something in his eyes – madness, sadism, sick pleasure. There was a predatory glint that a lion might have scoping out a baby antelope. And that look was directed right at her. Angie felt herself begin to tremble.

As he reached her, he stood watching her for a moment. Then he reached up, took hold of the gag and pulled it out of her mouth so it rested on her chin. Angie coughed once and tried to speak but her tongue still tasted of cloth and she choked on the sour taste. She turned her head to the side and made small spitting motions, trying to clear the sensation from her tongue.

She turned her head back but before she could get a word out, he unscrewed the top of the jug and raised it up to her lips. Angie had no choice but to take hold of it in a drinking fashion and accept the flow of water that he poured down her throat. Angie _was_ thirsty, but even as her body eagerly accepted the water she choked a little bit as some of the liquid went down her air passage. Several streams dribbled down her cheeks and chin, but he didn't stop or let her take a breath. For a second, Angie wondered whether this was how he planned to kill her – by drowning or suffocation – before he took the jug away.

She took several deep breaths before he pulled the gag back into her mouth. Giving a cruel smile, he leaned close to her. She shrank back as much as the wall allowed, trying to press herself into it; she didn't want this sick creep anywhere near her. He positioned his lips right next to her ear and spoke in soft, unwavering tone. "Don't be afraid, sugar. We got a lot of time to spend together. Ol' Paul here is gonna cure you of all your sins."

Angie's blood literally turned to ice at the sound of his voice so close to her. The Southern accent she had found so appealing earlier was now sending tremors down her spine; it was comparable to that of Sherriff Hoyt in _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ remake. She had no idea what he meant by all her sins, but it was clear by 'curing' her, he meant to do her some type of harm.

Still smiling, he stroked her cheek, which sent curls of disgust through her stomach. "You think about how your defiance of God has put you in this position. You should ask Him for forgiveness; it may just make it easier for you in the long run."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked back towards the stairs and up the steps. He stopped at the top, gave her a smirk and closed the door behind him.

Angie now felt truly scared. She had no idea where she was, other than in dark basement, or what time it was. Were people looking for her? Did they even know she was missing? Her parents normally kept track of where she was right up to the minute, but would they know something was wrong after what she said to them? She'd talked back, like any nineteen year old would, but when things got even more heated she swore, both in English and Korean, and said she shouldn't have to live her life in a cage, no matter whether there were any bars or not. It was so stupid - something that gotten way out of hand and never should have resulted in her storming out.

Then she wouldn't be here.

She felt the tears well up in her eyes and struggled to force them back. Crying wouldn't do her any good, no matter how scared she was. She had to think rationally, which was easier said than done. Her clothes seemed undisturbed and she didn't have any unusual physical feelings, so she guessed that meant he hadn't touched her – yet.

Right now she had to keep calm. Her disappearance would be noticed, if it hadn't been already. She just had to stay alive until someone found her. In the meantime, she would try to get a sense of where she was. It might help her if a way to get out came along.

Because if there was an opportunity for her to escape, she'd take it in a heartbeat.

* * *

><p>"Okay," Morgan said, coming back over to the group. "The vehicle is registered to a Chris Jordan of Buffalo, twenty-six years old and unemployed."<p>

"Sure driving a nice ride for someone who doesn't work," Rossi remarked.

"Any idea who the woman is?" JJ asked.

"Garcia says there have been a lot of phone calls from his home phone to two numbers – one home and one cell phone. Both are in the name of Suzy McMillan, age twenty-five. The last call was to her cell approximately 8:03 last night and lasted less than two minutes."

"Swing by, pick her up, go somewhere to enjoy some time together, and then get ambushed by the UnSub," Emily said.

"If the UnSub came across them by accident, it could have thrown him off his strategy," Reid added. "That could have been the primary reason this killing was different than the others."

At this point Brighton's phone rang and he answered it. "Yeah, Brighton."

The team watched as the detective's face changed. "When?"

"…"

"What makes you think it's him?"

"…"

"Are you sure?" By this time the entire team was watching and listening to the detective's side of the conversation.

"…"

"Alright, I'll be right there."

He hung up and cast a serious face at the agents. "A nineteen year old woman was just reported missing. Parents said she left home after an argument last night and never came back."

"When and where?" Hotch asked.

"The family store is a block east of here. They say she left right around nine. She was supposed to be home by nine fifteen."

"That fits right into the timeframe of this killing."

"Coincidence?"

"Not in this case." Hotch drew himself up. "We'll head over there as soon as we're finished."

"I'll try and make it as quick as possible for you." Dr. Chao gingerly opened up the driver's door, trying to avoid shattering the window even more and cutting herself. "In any case, these two aren't going anywhere on their own. Poor kids; looking for some private time and lose their lives over it. It's more often the case than not in this city."

As she gently took hold of the man's shoulder, his body shifted in the chair, causing his head to move slightly up and back.

"Hold on."

Everyone stopped at the sound of Emily's voice. She leaned closer and peered through the opposite window, her brows furrowed in concentration.

"What is it, Prentiss?" Hotch asked.

Emily stared through the glass onto the face at the driver's bloody face. Despite the red mess, there was something about it… she'd felt something in her gut go off when she first saw it clearly. She couldn't tell what it was right away. Kneeling down, she took off her sunglasses and squinted.

"Emily?"

Morgan's voice seemed far away, distant. It was competing with another voice in her head. Or voices. She didn't know how many.

_Chris Jordan of Buffalo._

_Chris Jordan._

_Chris…_

_"What it means, __**Chris**__..."_

_"Why don't you ask __**Suzy**__?"_

Emily felt her heart drop right into the depths of her stomach.

"Prentiss?"

She swallowed hard and looked at her boss.

"I've seen him before."

**TBC…**


	20. I-19

**A/N: Thanks to all the reviewers, especially to miaa29, ShezFriend, rmpcmfan, MeGkAtHeRiNe, lizzabet and Lexis4MorganPrentiss. You rock!**

**Scott's part was originally supposed to be in the previous chapter but I felt it would work better in this one.**

**MILF is an acronym – mostly used by young men – for the colloquial term 'Mother I'd Like to Fuck,' or a sexually attractive older woman.**

_**The Wizard of Oz **_**is a 1939 film starring Judy Garland and Frank Morgan. The character referred to in this chapter is Auntie Em (played by Clara Blandick).**

* * *

><p>"What did you say?"<p>

Emily heard Brighton's question. She understood it. She knew what he was talking about. But the thing was she didn't hear his voice asking it – she heard her own.

_I've seen him before_.

She hadn't intended for the words to come out of her mouth. They were supposed to remain in her head. It was only after she'd already said them she realized what she had done. She cursed herself, wishing beyond anything she could take it back. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option as everyone was now looking on her, expecting an answer.

"Prentiss? What do you mean you you've seen him before?" Hotch asked.

She felt her throat dry up and forced herself to look back at the bodies, hoping no one had caught the look on her face – one she was sure was of pure guilt with a touch of fear mixed in.

What the hell was she going to say? _How do I know the male victim? Oh, simple. He punched out the bike courier I accompanied to the hospital a couple days ago who I later kissed outside his apartment and then screwed senseless like a horny college student last night. That's it._

She gave another swallow, willing herself to _not_ look like she had just thought exactly that. She gave deep silent breath to compose herself, assumed a straight face and said in a neutral voice, "I… saw him a couple of days ago."

"Where?"

"At a bar a few blocks away." Seeing the team leader and a few others raise their eyebrows she quickly said, "I went there to just blow off some steam, try and clear my headache. He came in not too long afterwards, got a bit rowdy and started harassing some other customers. I told him to leave and he didn't want to, so I restrained him until security escorted him out."

Hotch's face was unreadable, much like always, but Emily could see the wheels turning in his mind. Did he believe her? She thanked God that he couldn't read her mind. Then again maybe could – he always seemed to have a second nature about when people were being less than truthful, much like they all did.

"Did it seem like he knew any the other customers?"

Emily shrugged. "I don't know. I guess he could have. I'm not sure." The lie passed so easily – so smoothly – between her lips.

At that moment Hotch's cell rang and he answered it. "Garcia, you're on speaker."

"_Okay, I'm not one to believe in coincidences, so I'll just get right down to the point. I checked the phone records of both the victims looking for any connections to anyone else involved in any of the investigations."_

"Any hits?"

"_Just one – a call from Suzy to a cell phone late yesterday afternoon. Sending the info to all of you now."_

A moment later, all the agents' phones beeped, signalling an incoming message. They all took them out and looked down at the screen where Garcia had sent the name and address.

Hotch looked up. "Reid, Morgan."

"On our way." The two men were already heading towards one of the vans.

"JJ, you and Prentiss head over to the second scene. Rossi and I will finish up here." Hotch nodded. "Move out."

Emily barely heard him. She was still staring down at the name on the screen on her phone.

It was only after a moment of this, and JJ calling her name, that she realized her entire body had gone numb.

* * *

><p>Scott trudged up the stairs to the floor of his apartment building. His gym bag was weighing heavily on his shoulder and he made a move to adjust it. His sore muscles screamed at him not to do it; barely repressing a groan (of pain or frustration he wasn't quite sure) he relented and let it dig in.<p>

Truth told, he barely noticed it. His mind wasn't on the discomfort. Not that kind anyway.

In his mind, there was little room for doubt on one point – he had royally screwed up.

There was a part of all men - especially young men – who loved to brag about their escapades with the opposite sex. It was a major double standard; whereas a woman with multiple partners was likely to be viewed negatively, men were to be celebrated for their success. In many of their eyes, the more notches on a man's belt or bed post, the better. It was an especially big accomplishment for them to succeed in bedding a sexually desirable older woman – the college dorm back at NYS had had more than a few guys who bragged about how good it was to be with a woman who knew what they were doing, casually branding them with labels like 'cougar', 'puma' and, most often, 'MILF.' Scott understood all this – had even gone along with the joking a couple of times in his younger days – but only now could he see how childish and stupid it was.

If he had encountered Emily Prentiss when he was a hormonal, testosterone-driven man of eighteen, he probably would have felt pride in sleeping with an FBI agent, especially one as icy and beautiful as her. It was something a lot of his dorm mates would have bragged about over a beer at the local watering hole. Would he have done the same? He didn't know, but what he _did_ know was that the last thing he felt like doing now was bragging.

His experience last night was certainly worthy of it; in fact, it was the most amazing one he'd ever had in his life. And not just for the actual sex. Sure it had been great – fantastic actually – but also for another reason. There was something that happened the first time he saw her; some kind of _connection_. Scott wasn't quite sure what it was but it was definitely something more than just a night of heated passion. He'd felt something with her – something he'd never felt before.

And then to see the coldness in her face this morning - something bordering on almost _hatred_ when she told him to get out - was something else entirely. The ice in her voice had been enough to send chills down his spine. When he looked her eyes, he'd seen nothing even remotely like the woman he'd first met. What he'd seen was probably what she'd wanted him to see - a federal agent who wouldn't hesitate to arrest him like a common criminal. Interfering with a federal investigation was the charge with which she'd threatened him; he'd be lucky if she didn't throw in sexual harassment too.

He sighed. Maybe it would have been easier if he could say with certainty that last night was just a booty call. A one night stand. A fling. A mark on his bedpost. No strings attached. But it wasn't. What happened with Agent Prentiss hadn't been like what happened with Suzy. Not even remotely. Prentiss was a strong woman, someone who he got the feeling rarely, if ever, allowed her barriers to come down. He'd been able to do so and, as a payoff, he'd succeeded in getting right dead-centre in her crosshairs. _Guess there really is one born every minute._

Reaching his door, he shifted the bag to the other shoulder and got his key from his pocket. He was just putting it in the lock when a voice nearby stopped him. "Mr. Jackson?"

Scott recognized the voice, which meant that simply pretending he hadn't heard it wasn't an option. Not now anyway. He turned to see Mrs. Wraith standing in the doorway of her apartment, wearing a green woolen shirt and thin sweatpants that hugged her legs. It was surprisingly casual look for her. "Hi, Mrs. Wraith," he said with a smile as upbeat as he could. "How are you today?"

"Very well, thank you. I just returned from a walk. I must say it's still rather cool outside, but I refuse to let that stand in the way of staying fit and healthy at my age."

"That's a good goal to have. I'm sure you'll be successful."

"Thank you. And yourself? You're home very early today. Are you feeling unwell?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Not at all. I feel fine. Better than I have in a while." Scott gave another smile, hoping she would accept it and allow him to escape to the safety of his apartment before the whole front blew up in his face.

No such luck. She gave him a skeptical look and said, "I may be old Mr. Jackson, but I am certainly not senile. As such I find it hard to believe that a hard-working young man such as you would willingly not be at his job without a good reason."

And this, Scott understood, was where experience trumped youth. "Ah. Well, to be honest ma'am, it's not my job anymore. It hasn't been since at least yesterday. Truth told I'm not sure it ever was my job. Yesterday just proved that."

"You gave your resignation?"

"Um, not quite." Scott fumbled for words, struggling to find a way to tell the truth without sounding like a stereotypical lazy, I-don't-give-a-shit high school dropout. "Thing is, I, uh… I- I got fired."

He expected more questions from her, perhaps a reproach for doing whatever god awful thing he must have done to deserve being terminated. A lot of people likely would have had no problem doing just that. But instead, she merely looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before fully opening up her door. "Come inside."

"Huh?"

She motioned with her hand. "Wherever you've come from, you must be cold. Come inside and I'll fix you some hot tea."

"Oh, that's kind of you Mrs. Wraith, but I really couldn't intrude on you -" Scott started.

"You're not really going to leave an old woman to drink tea alone, are you Mr. Jackson?"

The suggestion was subtle, ever so subtle, but left no room for further protests. Whatever arguments were on his tongue died instantly. He obligingly walked passed her through the door.

Mrs. Wraith's apartment was very much what he expected it to be – neat, tidy, plain and practical. There were no expensive pieces of furniture or the latest pieces of technology scattered everywhere. It was an abrupt, and frankly welcome, change to what he was used to from people his age. He didn't have the money to buy anything extravagant and, overall, hers wasn't a huge shift from his own place.

"Just put your bag and jacket down on the bench right by the door here," she said, walking into the kitchen. Scott obliged before following her. Her kitchen was small, around the same size as his, and contained practically all the same stuff, right down to the table for two where one side was worn out much more than the other. The only differences were the presence here of the tea set she brought out from one of the cabinets and a bronze cross hanging on the wall with a statue of Jesus Christ being crucified on it. Scott felt slightly like a heathen sitting right under it and not just because he'd committed his fair share of sins in his life – he was all but an avowed atheist and had been for as long as could remember.

"Milk or lemon with your tea?" Mrs. Wraith was saying as she boiled the water.

"Milk, I guess," he replied.

His neighbour worked quickly and efficiently and soon brought over two full cups, his with milk and hers with lemon. Scott tentatively brought the hot beverage to his lips, shrinking back a few times at the piping steam coming off it. He finally worked up the nerve to take just enough of a sip that would allow him to taste it without scalding himself.

Mrs. Wraith observed his efforts closely. "I hope it's alright for you, dear."

"It is," he said, and he meant it. It was exactly what he needed then – something hot, strong and NOT alcoholic. "I haven't had tea in a very long time. It's excellent."

She smiled. "I thought you mind find it so."

The two sat in silence for a few moments, taking sips from their cups.

She eventually set hers down on the table. "So," she said, "how did a young man like you end up getting fired from the job he's held for six years?"

Scott sighed. There really was no getting out of it, he realized; she wasn't going to relent until she got the truth out of him. "I said what was on my mind."

"And what was that?"

"That the boss treated his workers like trash and cared about nothing except how much money they could bring him," he replied. "He disagreed and fired me on the spot."

"That's all?" Mrs. Wraith said. "He fired you because you raised concerns about how you and your fellow employees were treated?"

He gave a humorless chuckle. "Well, that and I may have thrown an insult or two on the way out."

Her brow furrowed. "What kind of insults?"

Scott paused for a moment, wondering if it would be disrespectful to repeat the type of language he'd used with his former boss to a woman of faith. He was reminded of the time he first learned about Mrs. Wraith's strong Christian beliefs and the tentativeness he'd had about her learning about his decidedly non-Biblical actions – mostly having sex outside marriage. He'd been surprised she was as cool with it as she was – even approving – but he wasn't about to test his luck with this.

"I told him I didn't need him anymore either and walked out."

"That's all?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

She straightened up in her seat and folded her hands. "Tell me exactly what happened."

It was a damn shame, Scott thought, Mrs. Wraith hadn't been a cop or journalist in her life. If there was one person he could recommend for either job at this very moment, it would be her. Taking a deep breath, he told her everything; about Suzy and Chris' betrayal, about how she'd tried to step back into his life like nothing had happened, about Mr. Dickie's uncaring attitude and insults. She listened with a pensive look on her face, watching him closely but not in a judgmental way.

When he'd finally finished, she leaned forward. "And after all this had happened, you just told both of them you didn't need them anymore?"

He nodded. Mrs. Wraith looked away and raised her cup to take a sip of tea. "That's too bad."

Scott internally cringed. Maybe his estimates on her not judging him had been off the mark. "Well, I suppose I could have just said I was sorry they felt that way, but the truth is, I wasn't." He tapped his foot nervously. "I'm sorry if you think I did the wrong thing."

"I do believe you did the wrong thing," she said, staring straight ahead.

Scott was beginning to feel like a child who'd stolen a candy bar and was now being forced to confess his sin to a priest. "Yeah, I guess the right thing to do would be turn the other cheek and let bygones be bygones, but I just couldn't -"

She shook her head. "No, no, you misunderstand." She looked straight at him. "The right thing to do would be to tell your boss and your ex-girlfriend to take their petty views and stick them right where the sun doesn't shine."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to take in what he'd just heard. "Tell them…" he trailed off slowly.

"Exactly." She nodded.

"I would have thought you would have told me the Christian way would be to forgive and forget."

"Normally it is. However, if a man is a bastard or a woman is a bitch, one should have no problem calling them that."

Scott sat silent for a moment. He'd never heard his elderly neighbour curse before, believing she'd consider it blasphemous. Then again, he'd never have expected a woman who went to church every Sunday and said the Lord's Prayer before every dinner to encourage him to engage in pre-marital sex. Feeling newly emboldened, he said, "Well, I did kind of tell my boss... ex-boss to go screw himself -in less polite terms."

A small smile creased her wrinkled face. "I only wish I could have said that to some of the men I worked for in my day. Now, to paraphrase a character from _The Wizard of Oz_, being a Christian woman I don't believe I can say that to anyone."

"If you do, I'll go to confessional for you," Scott joked.

"That's very kind of you. Our pastor is a very ancient gentleman. His heart may not be able to withstand the shock of hearing that one of his oldest and most faithful has blasphemed."

"Or that a non-religious person is in his church."

The two enjoyed a good laugh before falling silent again. Scott stared into the darkness of the liquid in his cup. When he first woke up this morning he'd seen a ray of sunlight - and not from the window. Now things seemed as dark and bleak as the tea in front of him.

Her voice broke his thoughts. "I must say I was a little worried when you didn't return last night. Nothing wrong I hope."

"I'm surprised you noticed," he said.

"These walls are not nearly as thick as you might think. Usually I can hear every time a person enters or leaves their apartment. I thought you might just have been running a little late, but when you hadn't returned by ten o'clock, I got a little concerned."

Scott waved a hand. "Oh, it's nothing. I stayed over at a friend's place." It was _nearly_ the truth.

"I see." She adjusted her position on the chair so she could face him without turning her head so much. "Male or female, this friend?"

"Male." He sounded pretty convincing, at least in his mind.

Apparently she didn't share that thought. "Really? So it wasn't that young woman who gave you such a nice goodnight kiss the other night?"

Scott, in the middle of taking a sip of tea, choked and coughed heavily to clear the liquid from his airway. "I-I'm sorry?" he gasped.

Mrs. Wraith cast him a look. "I am not blind, Mr. Jackson, despite the heavy prescription my optometrist insists I need. Now I am as forgiving as the next person, but I cannot respect anyone who wilfully lies, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. If I cannot trust you to tell the truth, how can any woman?"

His eyes cast downward. Now he truly did feel like a heathen before God. And he didn't even believe in such a thing.

His silence was as good as a confession. "You were with her last night, weren't you?" It was more a statement than a question.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"And there was more than a kiss goodnight this time."

A faint smile appeared briefly on his lips as the memory returned. "Yeah," he said softly. "A lot more."

She nodded, paused for a moment and then said, "Is she worth it?"

"Absolutely." His quickness surprised him.

"But?" She detected the unspoken exception in his voice.

He stared straight ahead. "She doesn't want anything more to do with me. And for once, I feel bad about it. Like, really bad. Not just bad that I'll forget after a few drinks."

"Why?"

"I don't know." He rubbed his temples slowly. "All I know is she hates my guts and never wants to see me again."

"Hate is a very strong word, Mr. Jackson."

"It's also accurate in this case." Scott shook his head. "And anyway, it's probably for the best."

"Why would you say that?"

"I'm pretty sure we're incompatible. I'm an unemployed twenty-six year old with just a high school education and she's a federal investigator about ten years older."

"Those are hardly irreconcilable differences."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure I rubbed her nerves to the breaking point the last couple of days. Me and my big mouth. I've always got to have the last word." He snorted. "Except this time."

Mrs. Wraith watched pensively as he drained the rest of his cup. "I may be wrong," she started, "and perhaps it's none of my business, but I think you're giving up on her far too easily."

"Why?"

"Because of human nature. Men and women are both very stubborn and complex. They have different ways of viewing things often enough, but they were both created for the purpose of perseverance."

"Or evolved that way over time."

"However you believe it, both sexes have an opposing balance that exists in every person - attraction and rejection of the other. Often times they are repulsed one of their counterparts, other times they are attracted to them. But it is the attraction side that wins out more often. The human race would not survive if it didn't."

"Pretty sure she showed only the repulsion side this morning."

"Then perhaps she was being too hasty and will eventually come to realize it. Patience is a virtue, even if it is not a popular one."

Scott looked at her curiously. "Why are you so interested in me having a love life?"

Her wrinkled old face gave way to a big smile. "Because I've been where you are. You may not believe it but I was your age once too. The key difference, apart from gender of course, is that you and the rest of your generation have so much more freedom than I and mine did. I only wish to see you take advantage of it."

"What do you mean?"

"When I was a young woman, things were very different. The two most important things in your life were family and faith. Romance was a matter of satisfying those two things before satisfying yourself. And it was all the same; Protestants went with Protestants, Catholics went with Catholics. Interreligious marriages within Christianity were frowned upon. Ones between different religions were strictly taboo. So were ones between different class groups. Interracial relationships, if not illegal, were unheard of. Don't even get me started on same-sex relationships. It was a very restrictive structure and we knew nothing outside of it.

"My husband and I both attended the same church – had since we were children. Our families introduced us and all but expected us to one day get married. We eventually did, but I will tell you that it was only afterwards that we truly fell in love. He was my first love and my last love; we had nearly fifty years and three wonderful children together. I wouldn't ever want to go back change that. But I will say that sometimes I wish I had been born in your generation."

"Why? The job market's a lot worse nowadays and people are putting off a lot of the stuff your generation took for granted."

"True, but there is also a lot more freedom – not just for women, but for all young people. Your generation is the most independent and creative to ever exist."

Scott gave a half-smile. "Some say the most entitled ever."

"Entitled to what? To the bag of dreams you were sold and then had yanked away at the last minute? Mr. Jackson, I am seventy-one years old. I've seen more in my life than you will for many years to come. And I only wish my generation had _half_ the free-thinking spirit that yours does. But I'm getting off topic."

She folded her hands. "Relationships don't come easy. Anyone who has a successful one will not come out unscathed. There will be bumps in the road and heartache. It's all in the process of finding 'the one.' And because young people today have so much more freedom, they must be allowed to test the waters and explore how they interact with their prospective partners in ways unimaginable in my youth."

"Really?"

Her eyes twinkled. "Why else do you think I've been encouraging you to find a woman with whom you can have a healthy physical relationship? How can one determine if they have found a desirable mate without _mating_?"

Scott chuckled. "You know, when we first met I thought you would have told me the opposite."

"Because I'm the stereotypical old Bible thumper who regards sex for anything other than procreation among married couples as original sin?"

"I didn't know what you thought back then."

She shook her head. "Never assume anything. Especially about people."

"More often than not it's been right."

"Mr. Jackson, we've known each other for several years. How often, in that time, have you heard me preach about sin to you?"

"None," he admitted.

She nodded. "It may be difficult to believe but there is room for freedom of thought in faith. You know how I am; I am a firm believer in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. I am also a firm believer in a person's individual right to choose how they live their life. I made a difficult decision long ago to cut ties with an old friend of mine – one I'd known for thirty years. She said she didn't want to be checked out by a teenage girl at a bookstore because the cashier was in a relationship with another female and was, according to my friend, bound straight for Hell. She harassed and humiliated that poor girl to tears. It was one of the most disturbing things I've ever witnessed in my life and I told her if she had that attitude towards gays, I no longer considered her a friend or decent human being."

"Seriously?"

"Of course! My grandson is gay. Why do you think I've remained up here in New York and not gone down to live out my golden years in Florida? I prefer to live in a state where my grandson can marry his boyfriend without the government telling him he's not worthy of a happy life with the one he loves."

Scott fell silent for a moment. It all seemed well and good, but was it realistic for him? This wasn't simply a matter of being with an older woman; the woman in question worked for a federal law enforcement agency in another state. That alone would be a significant hurdle. Then there was the little matter of her making it pretty clear she'd slap the cuffs on him if he ever came around to see her again. Things like that just couldn't be ignored, no matter how he looked at it.

"What do think I should do?" he finally asked.

"Only you can choose what to do, my dear," she replied. "It is not up to me or anyone else to tell you how to live your life. My only concern is that any relationship you have is safe, responsible and consensual on both ends. If you manage that, everything else will fall into place."

Scott wasn't sure it was that simple, but what was he going to say? That he didn't believe in safety, responsibility and consent? He'd had more than his fair share of bad luck in his life. Maybe she did have a point; only time would tell whether she was right.

"I'm not sure I believe it," he said slowly, "but I'm willing to at least see where it goes."

She smiled. "I'm happy for that." She rose to take her empty cup to the sink. Scott followed her carrying his own.

"Scott." For the first time in as long as he could remember she used his first name. "If I may make one suggestion, it's this: don't wait too long to make up your mind. You may think you have all the time in the world, but you don't. Women are complex characters, take my word on that. If you don't take advantage of the opportunities life gives you, you may very well miss out on life itself."

He nodded, and not just to please her. "I'll give it my best shot."

"Good." She drew herself up to her full height, which was a good six inches shorter than him. "Now you must excuse me while I ask God's forgiveness for cursing and encouraging you to live in sin."

"Isn't that what you've been doing the whole time we've known each other?" Scott teased.

"Indeed. As a Christian, I must atone for that." She gave a youthful grin. "As a lonely old widow, I'm delighted to have a reason to liven up my day. Otherwise, the only thing I'd have to ask forgiveness for is mentally cursing out that fool of a grocery store manager."

He gave a hearty laugh. One thing you could _not_ accuse Mary Wraith of being was meek. "I'm sure," he said when his laughter subsided. "Thanks, Mrs. Wraith. I really appreciate it."

As he left her apartment, Scott had to admit that he did feel a little bit lighter in his step. Even if things didn't work out the way his neighbour had laid them out, he could say with certainty she had a way of making them seem like they would. If he was still in this building come next Christmas, he would make sure to get her the nicest gift he could afford.

Stepping into his own place, he dropped his bag and jacket on the floor, kicked off his shoes, looked around and then let out a loud groan as he saw the faint dull light spilling out of his bedroom. How long had that been on - all night? He couldn't even remember turning it on even though he had left it on enough times in the evening before so he wouldn't trip and break his neck coming in in the dark. Of course, he really hadn't planned on being away all night but it was still wasting power; with no job, he couldn't afford to waste anything, least of all electricity.

He went into his bedroom and switched the light off. Trying to remember when he had put it on, he rubbed a hand over his chin and felt the rough stubble of his five o'clock shadow. He had never been able to grow much facial hair and had gotten into the routine of shaving first thing every morning – this morning excluded, of course. Well, better late than never.

He had just started to take his shirt off when a sudden rapping sound at his door halted him in his tracks. Scott stepped out of the bathroom and stared at it. His first thought was Mrs. Wraith had forgotten to tell him something. But his neighbour didn't knock like that. And she always called out right afterwards, saying it was always best to identify yourself immediately. So who was it? The manager?

Then the sound came again; three hard knocks at his door. _**RAP, RAP, RAP.**_

"Scott Jackson." A no-bullshit male voice came from the other side. "FBI. Open up."

**TBC…**


	21. I-20

**I apologize for the delay and the rather short chapter. Things will get longer and better, I promise, but I wanted to get this uploaded.**

**Westley Allan Dodd (1961-1993) was an American child molester and serial killer who raped and murdered three children and molested over 50 others. He was executed by hanging in Washington State on January 5, 1993. **

* * *

><p>Hotch stared through the glass into the interrogation room. It was a position he was very familiar with, having watched many a suspect through similar panes of one-way glass. This time was no different; the only thing in the room that he hadn't seen many times over was the face of the suspect.<p>

It had been two hours since Morgan and Reid had brought Scott Jackson downtown. In that time, the evidence had been slowly mounting.

Dr. Chao's estimate of the time of death put the murders at between roughly eight and ten. On a hunch that the killer might have been scoping the area, Morgan asked Garcia to pull up all the surveillance camera footage room that night in a radius several blocks around the crime scene. There were no cameras that caught the crime as it happened, unfortunately, but there were several traffic cams posted at intersections along the main street. And lo and behold, one of the recordings had caught the 26-year-old bicycle courier walking eastbound in the direction of the crime scene at roughly twenty after nine the previous evening.

Rather, that was the _former_ bicycle courier as Garcia had immediately launched into an all-out frenzy of a check on him as soon as he was identified as a main suspect. According to records, he'd been fired the previous day following a heated discussion with the company manager. This had occurred right after a phone conversation that turned out to be with the female victim Suzy McMillian. By all reports, it seemed, the conversation had not been a pleasant one.

JJ and Emily soon joined the others outside Interrogation. "We spoke to the missing woman's parents," the blonde said. "Her name is Kim Seo-yeon, age nineteen. They said she left at around nine after they argued with her about purchasing contraception. She was supposed to be back at quarter after. When she didn't return, her father went looking for her. He couldn't find her so they called the police."

"Do they know which direction she headed?"

"By the time they followed her out of the family store, she was gone and they couldn't say, _but_ we think we have a hit at a pharmacy not far from the Jordan-McMillian crime scene."

"Where'd that come from?"

JJ looked at her older colleague, as did the others, but they were treated to only silence. Emily was looking straight ahead through the glass at the man sitting behind the table. Her face was blank and unblinking, staring at him as though he might disappear should she make the slightest movement.

Hotch cleared his throat loudly and Emily jumped a little bit. "Um, well… to be honest I think I saw her there last night," she said.

JJ was the only one who didn't raise an eyebrow. "Saw the victim?" Brighton asked.

"Yeah, I had a bad headache and went to get some Tylenol from the pharmacy. There was an Asian woman there trying to buy contraception who was refused service. The pharmacist said nineteen year-olds shouldn't be buying birth control; the woman got upset and ran out. She was wearing the same clothes her parents said she wore last night."

"How sure are you it's the same woman?" Hotch asked.

"Same hoodie, same timeframe, it'd have to be a huge coincidence if it's not."

The former prosecutor stared at her. "Anything else you'd like to share with us, Prentiss?"

Emily stared back at him. "Like what?"

It was Rossi who answered. "You seem to be in the middle of a lot with this case. All the way back to being the first one to speak with Jackson after the last bombing."

"So?"

"There anything else you want to tell us before we go in there?" Hotch asked pointedly.

Emily stared back at him, willing her face to not betray the sharp spike in her heart rate. "No."

The stare he gave her was not severe, but to her it felt almost like he was trying to bore a hole into her brain to see whether she was telling the truth. It made her nervous, but she didn't know what was causing it – guilt or fear.

Since she'd first seen Scott's name on her phone, she'd been a mixed bag of emotions; those two happened to be the strongest of both of them. At first, when she recognized the missing woman she'd debated not mentioning it at all but soon dismissed the idea; not only would it be easily discovered, it could very well be detrimental to tracking down the real UnSub.

Real UnSub… Emily couldn't remember the last time she'd used that term. Had she ever used it? Sure, they'd had suspects who, in the long run, turn out to be innocent but she never remembered labelling an UnSub as 'real' or 'false' before.

When she'd looked into Interrogation, Emily saw a 'false' UnSub in Scott Jackson. It wasn't just a gut instinct; she _knew_ he was innocent – of this crime and almost certainly any other. She'd been with him at the time of Kim Seo-yeon's abduction. There was no way he could have anything to do with any of this... could he?

Morgan was speaking. "You know, Suzy's betrayal could have been the ultimate trigger. We theorized that his fixation on a particular woman was the source of this UnSub's rage. From what Garcia was able to find out, she cheated on Jackson with Chris Jordan. That was only a week before the Ramos killing. Maybe we just got the kind of woman who had humiliated him wrong."

"Have we got his background?" JJ asked.

"Twenty-six years old, born in Minneapolis, father left the family when he was thirteen. His mother died in 2006 and when he could no longer afford to pay tuition, he dropped out of a chemical engineering program at New York State and began working at Empire Deliveries."

"Any sign of sexual abuse as a child?"

"None reported. Never any indication of anything inappropriate."

"So what are you saying? That because he doesn't have the background you're looking for, he's not our guy?" Brighton demanded.

"Not necessarily. Westley Allan Dodd claimed that his family life could be turbulent but that he was never abused or neglected as a child. There were varying accounts, but the general consensus was he had relatively normal childhood," Reid said.

"Unless there's something there that we don't know about," Morgan added. "Maybe something about the relationship with Suzy that triggered something from his memory."

"No. No, I don't buy it." Emily vigorously shook her head. "This UnSub showed _clear_ signs of hatred towards women, something far beyond just having a nasty breakup. If we're basing our profile off that, we may as well include every man in the state."

"Not every man in New York knew people who betrayed them who were later killed," Hotch replied evenly. "Or who were caught on surveillance camera close to where a missing person was last seen."

"Or who had the general know-how to possible construct explosive devices," JJ added.

"A couple years of college does _not_ equal knowing how to create bombs," Emily argued.

"Unless he picked it up from a central authority figure," Morgan interjected. "He's had six years to learn. And besides, we can't dismiss the possibility of a single leader in all this. You know that, Emily."

"Derek, I'm not saying to dismiss anything! I'm merely following what the profile's telling me, and this guy's not clicking!" Emily cast a look at the group staring at her. "Look, I observed the kind of person he was a couple days ago at the hospital. Arrogant, yes. Loud-mouthed, yes. And I agree that if anyone was to recruit someone that a younger person would be ideal because they're usually more impressionable, but there is nothing here that would indicate that Jackson is the type that would go for that."

"You got all that from less than an hour with him?" Reid asked.

"Well, if I did, I'm pretty sure you would have in about a minute."

"Personalities can be difficult to read," Hotch said, this time more pointedly. "You spent only a short amount of time with him. You know as well as any of us people can put on different masks to show who they truly are. Faking emotion in order to hide a lack of emotion is right up there."

Emily stared at her boss, unsure if she had actually just heard what she thought she had. "Hotch, you sound like you're suggesting he's a psychopath!"

"The UnSub very likely is. I'm not suggesting anything yet but until we know otherwise, we treat him the same as any other suspected UnSub."

Emily let the retort '_but he's not the UnSub!'_ die on her tongue. What the hell could she say? That she had a gut feeling he wasn't guilty? That her previous life and experience that taught her how to lie with a straight face gave her the special insight into when a person was guilty or innocent? Emily racked her brains frantically trying to think of something that would prove her point, but the only thing she could come up with was to reveal the real reason she knew he wasn't the UnSub. That, she thought to herself, was out of the question.

Brighton cut in. "Look, I need to know if you really think this could be our guy. I've got valuable manpower occupied going through his apartment and his records, but I'm not going to have a whole division of the NYPD chasing a false lead. If he doesn't fit – and personally I think he's looking really good for at least the double murder last night – tell me."

There was a moment of silence before Rossi piped in. "Let us talk to Jackson. I'm willing to bet there's a good chance he knows more than he's telling. If he's at least one of the UnSubs, he's bound to slip up and make a mistake. No one can maintain the perfect lie at all times, not even geniuses," he added, throwing a look at Reid.

Hotch nodded. "JJ and I will work him from different angles, see what we can uncover."

"I'm coming in too," Emily said. She didn't know what prompted her to say it - the words were out before she had time to process it – but Hotch immediately cut her down.

"No. That's exactly what you're not going to do."

"Why not?" Emily demanded.

Hotch stared at her as though slightly taken aback by her aggressive tone. "Because you already talked to him. He knows what to expect from you. And besides, you've already made your point on whether you think he's guilty or not clear."

"I'm just following the profile!"

"As am I. Look Prentiss, I know you've still got some things on your mind, but -"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Emily demanded. "There's nothing wrong with the way I do my job, Hotch. You're making it sound as if I've been compromised or something!"

She regretted saying that a split second after it came out of her mouth. She pursed her lips, wishing she could take it back as Hotch stared a hole through her.

"Like I said, I'm not suggesting anything. But I do think you need to step back a little bit. You've already been in the middle of a lot of this case. Let JJ and I handle this part of it."

Emily willed herself to keep her mouth closed, fearing letting anything else slip. She'd already destroyed her chances of being in on the interrogation; one more wrong word could bring her whole charade crashing down.

She knew things were less than ideal either way. If she went in there, her presence during the interrogation may cause a slip on either her part or Scott Jackson's. Visual cues and tics were always there, even if verbal acknowledgement wasn't. And all the people on her team were highly trained to look for such slips. But at least she'd be right there to deal with it as it came along. In Interrogation, she'd at least have had some control over how the questioning went. She could guide Jackson into telling the essential truth while making sure that anything that didn't need to be said wouldn't be. It would be the most ideal situation: he would provide them with information that would clear him and stop them from following a false lead and her secret would remain just that – a secret.

But what would happen without her in there? Scott Jackson may be quick-witted but against two FBI profilers, he may as well be a wet-behind-the-ears college freshman who'd been caught smoking pot behind the cafeteria and was now being looked at for assaulting another student. She had no idea how he stood up to pressure. Without her to guide the process, he might end up putting both of them in a bad position. And what would happen after that? The case could go off on a completely false trail. The real UnSubs could go on killing. An innocent man could be accused of heinous crimes. And her? Emily didn't want to even imagine what the consequences for her actions could be.

All of this whirled through her head in the blink of an eye. She couldn't just allow it to happen. Yet as she stood there and watched as her two colleagues turned towards the door to Interrogation, that's all she could do - watch. Her muscles seemed frozen and her voice seemed to have disappeared. She was aware that most of the rest of the people in the room were still staring at her; in an attempt to deflect any suspicion, she turned towards the one-way glass that looked into the interrogation room.

As Hotch and JJ entered, she turned her attention towards the young man seated behind the desk. She didn't know what she was looking for. Something that indicated this would turn out alright. A sign that, somehow, he was not going to invite further suspicions on either of them. That she didn't have to blurt out that she knew they were chasing a false trail while the real UnSubs plotted to murder more innocent people.

She looked for it – and it wasn't there.

The door clicked shut behind Hotch and JJ. To Emily, it sounded like the door of an execution chamber shutting behind a condemned prisoner.

**TBC…**


	22. I-21

Scott was getting worried.

Actually, that wasn't completely accurate – he already _was_ worried. He'd been ever since he'd opened the door and found two FBI agents – one of them the strange Dr. Reid he'd seen two days earlier and the other a muscular black man with a no-nonsense expression on his face who identified himself as Special Agent Derek Morgan – on the other side. Now he'd been 'asked' - which was more like 'demanded' - that he come with them downtown immediately. His questions about what it involved had been met with only vague answers surrounding something about their investigation.

The words 'FBI' and 'investigation' hadn't been comforting to him recently. He recalled Agent Prentiss' threat to arrest him for interfering in one just that morning. Could that be what this was about? The prospect of being accused of both sexually harassing a federal agent and obstructing justice in what the media was calling a likely case of terrorism caused his heart rate to speed up. Perhaps his joke to Earl last night about secret prisons halfway around the world had been more serious than he thought.

Scott shifted restlessly in his chair. He knew it was likely that anyone watching on the other side of the window across from him would take it as a sign of nervousness and possibly guilt, but he couldn't help it. Not only was he actually nervous but also quite uncomfortable. It had been about fifteen hours since he'd last relieved himself and he hadn't been allowed to use the restroom since being brought in. Maybe this was a strategy the FBI commonly used on suspects; a little pressure on the bladder tended to make people more cooperative and likely to talk.

The door opening up immediately brought his attention away from his reflection in the window. Two people in suits entered the room, neither of them he recognized. One of them was a dark-haired male with an unreadable expression on his face. The other was a blonde woman with her hair tied in a ponytail who Scott guessed was several years younger than Prentiss. Neither of them looked particularly friendly towards him and his nervousness grew.

It was the man who spoke first. "My name's Special Agent Aaron Hotchner and this is Special Agent Jennifer Jareau. We're with the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit and all we're looking for is the truth." He folded his hands and looked straight at Scott.

After several moments of silence, Scott replied, "I wish I knew what you were looking for. Is this about the bombing at Empire? I thought I told you guys everything I knew."

Hotch placed an old photo Garcia had sent him from Suzy's Facebook page. "Do you know a Suzy McMillian, Mr. Jackson?"

Scott blinked at the photo. _That_ wasn't what he'd been expecting. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question."

Scott released a breath. "Yes, I know Suzy. We aren't close anymore but I know her."

"How?"

"We saw each other for a couple weeks until about a month ago. It was a bad break up. After that I didn't go out of my way to contact her."

"Is that why you say you aren't close?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Who ended the relationship?" JJ asked.

Scott gave a humourless chuckle. "I think we both kinda did."

"Meaning?"

"There's really not much doubt when she starts kissing another guy in front of you and then leaves with him after gloating about how delicious and sweet a treat he gives her."

JJ and Hotch exchanged looks. "How'd that make you feel?"

"I don't know. Pissed off I guess. Enough to drink the night away until you can't remember it the next morning. And anyway, it wasn't so much a relationship as it was sex. Her personality and mine didn't really click except for that. So I didn't have a breakdown over it."

Hotch placed another photo down alongside Suzy's. "Not even when she cheated on someone else you know quite well?"

Scott stared down at the photo, which showed a familiar shit-eating grin. "How-?"

"Do you know him?"

"Of course I know him. That's Chris Jordan. We went to NYS together." He stared back and forth between the two agents. "What's this all about?"

Hotch ignored him. "Did you talk to Suzy yesterday?"

"Briefly on the phone."

"I thought you said you weren't close," JJ said, leaning forward a little bit.

"We're not, it's just…" Scott scratched his forehead and felt the wetness of the perspiration on his skin, which didn't go unnoticed. "She called me and said she'd caught Chris cheating on her - big surprise there – and wanted to come over to my place. I told her that wasn't going to happen since she'd already proven she was willing to cut and run. We argued about it, I again refused to take her back, she said she was going back to Chris and I hung up."

"What time was that?" Hotch asked.

"Around three thirty, I think. Maybe just after."

"Three thirty-two which lasted for just under two minutes."

"Yeah. Seems right." Scott fidgeted in his chair. The signals his bladder was giving off were getting increasingly stronger.

"Something the matter, Mr. Jackson?" JJ asked.

"Huh? No, it's just that I haven't gone to the bathroom since last night and it's getting kind of hard to ignore."

"You can do that in a minute," Hotch said calmly. "But we have some more questions for you first."

"About what?"

"You were let go from your job immediately following that conversation?"

Scott sighed deeply. "Yes, as a matter of fact I was. My boss used the occasion of me chatting on the phone to accuse me of laziness and entitlement. I told him what I thought about him – namely that he was a selfish pig who didn't care one ounce about his employees – and walked out."

"That piss you off too?" JJ asked.

"Actually it was a relief. When you work for a guy for six straight years and he treats you and everyone else who works for him like trash, you don't shed too many tears over it."

"So what happened then?"

"Not much. I walked to the bus stop and went home."

"Did you go out again?"

"Around eight-thirty, yeah. A colleague, well, ex-colleague, of mine called and told me to come over."

"Who was that?" Hotch asked.

"Earl Sykes. He saw what happened with Dic- the boss and told me it would do me some good to sweat off the frustration in a workout. He's got a makeshift gym in his place. So I took the bus and went over there." He snorted. "Should've been expecting him to work me to the brink. Last time I tried benching 215 was in high school. It didn't end well."

"Where does he live?"

Scott gave them the address. As Hotch looked at it, a picture of the city map he'd seen earlier resurfaced in his mind. It took him a moment to realize what made it seem so familiar – the route ran right past their hotel where Bridget Silver's body had been dumped… _and only a few blocks from the pharmacy where Prentiss was sure she'd seen Kim Seo-yeon right before she went missing_.

A glance at JJ told the former prosecutor that the thought had occurred to her as well. "How long were you there for?"

"I don't know. An hour or so."

"And you came right back?"

"Yeah," Scott replied, trying to ignore the gnawing, curling sensation in his stomach. "Why?"

Before either agent could answer him, the door opened and Brighton poked his head in. He carried a manila envelope in his hand. "Agent Hotchner, could I talk to you for a moment?"

Hotch got up and left the room with the detective, closing the door behind him. Scott watched them leave and then turned to JJ. "Look, Agent… Jareau, is it? Can I use the washroom real quick? I'm starting to have bladder spasms."

"As soon as we're done here, you can do that."

"How long will that be?"

"When we're sure we have everything cleared up. We just want to be thorough," she replied. "This is a serious case; we want to make sure we don't race through it."

"I know, I know, but I'd just be like three minutes. I mean, I'm not going to walk away or anything," he said with a chuckle.

JJ gave a chuckle of her own that, to the trained ear, would have been recognized as a clever play. "I'm sure. I promise you we'll finish up as quickly as we can and let you be on your way."

The door opened and Brighton stepped back into the room. He sat down in the chair previously occupied by Hotch and set the envelope down on the table. "I'm Detective Jeremy Brighton of the NYPD. Mr. Jackson, I'd like to ask you a couple questions."

"Thought that was what I was already doing. Unless you've come to 'interrogate' me now," Scott said with a grin. When neither of the other two returned it, it slowly faded and he looked back and forth between them. "That was just a joke."

Instead of responding, Brighton took a blown-up sized photo out of the envelope. "Do you recognize her?"

Scott looked down at the smiling shot of a young Asian woman that looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. "No. Who is she?"

"Her name is Kim Seo-yeon."

Scott shook his head. "I don't know her."

"Do you keep up with the news, Mr. Jackson?"

"A little bit. I haven't had a whole lot of time lately."

"Not even about the series of bombings that have been happening in New York lately? I mean, you were right in the middle of one."

"Yes, I heard about that a couple days ago. One of the FBI agents told me."

"The same day as the bombing at Empire?"

"Yeah."

"Really?" Brighton tapped his fingers against the table, one after the other. Scott folded his hands; the sound unnerved him, which he did **not** need right now. Based on what they were asking, he figured that whatever they wanted from him probably had nothing to do with Agent Prentiss. On the other hand, their questions about his former job, his former acquaintances threw him for a loop. What they had to do with their investigation he didn't know. And that was what concerned him; what could they possibly be interested in if not Prentiss?

"Yes, really." Scott crossed his legs under the table. "I don't know why you're asking me that though."

Brighton withdrew two more photographs, those of Johnny Ramos and Bridget Silver. "Ever see these two?"

"No."

"You're sure?" JJ asked pointedly. She wasn't yet sure if she was sitting in front of the man they were looking for, but the mother in her pushed her on - the devastation on the faces of Bridget's parents was still fresh in her mind, as was the fear expressed by those of Kim Seo-yeon. It was something she understood very well; she and Will had made a promise to each other years ago to never let anything happen to Henry. They were both very clear on the main point of the agreement – their son's life was worth more than either of theirs. JJ would die to protect Henry. She'd kill to protect him. So would Will. And if – God forbid – anything did happen to her son, she wouldn't rest until she'd hunted down and killed anyone responsible. Now she could very well be looking at the man responsible for taking the lives of people's sons, daughters, husbands. Someone needed to get them justice. "Take a closer look at them." She tapped the pictures with her finger.

Scott leaned over and examined them closely, but nothing about them seemed familiar. As far as he could tell, they were just two ordinary people you could easily encounter on the street – a youngish Hispanic man and a young white woman dressed in punk clothing. "No, I've never seen them before. Look, what is this all about?" He leaned back and looked between the two. "I told you everything I know about what happened at Empire two days ago, which, to be frank, was very little. I don't know why you're asking me about Chris or Suzy or any of these people. What's going on here?"

Brighton's face changed, suddenly taking on a no-nonsense tone. He pulled out two other photos from the envelope and slapped them down on the table – the double homicide crime scene photos.

"Those people were murdered, we believe, by the same person who killed these two people. Chris Jordan and Suzy McMillian. The people you knew - the people who betrayed and humiliated you – last night. Last night, Jackson. The same night that Kim Seo-yeon went missing. Missing near the same area where they were killed. The same area you were seen on camera walking towards. If you got an explanation, you damn well better give it, 'cause rape, murder, terrorism and kidnapping doesn't make you friends in prison."

**TBC…**


	23. I-22

**Author's Notes:**

**- Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator" (Nov. 2004 – Dec. 2007) was an investigative television show hosted by former NBC reporter Chris Hansen.**

**- The DeLorean DMC-12 was the car used as a time machine in the "Back to the Future" trilogy (1985 - 1990) starring Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd. **

* * *

><p>Emily felt like she was being tortured.<p>

Actually, that was inaccurate; at that moment she **wanted** to be tortured.

She wanted someone to beat her mercilessly with clubs. She wanted to feel the sting of electric shocks against her flesh. She wanted someone to strap her down, hold a cloth over her nose and mouth and pour water over it. Any of it would be a welcome relief from the torment she was feeling inside.

When she was being viciously beaten by the cult leader, it was a better experience than now. When Ian Doyle held a red-hot poker to her flesh and branded her with a clover, she felt less pain than she felt now. Physical pain was something she'd dealt with before and knew how to handle. Internal torment was a whole different ballgame.

If Emily wasn't so good at compartmentalizing and hiding her emotions, she was certain the rest of the people in Observation would literally see the panic – along with several swear words – whirling around in her brain.

In her years as a profiler, she found she could generally read people fairly easily, know their thoughts and feelings. And she knew when a situation was going fine and when the shit was going to hit the fan. The scene playing out in front of her in the interrogation room was the grey area, the transition between uneasy calm and total chaos.

There was a general feeling of satisfaction she felt when she knew a person was guilty and could back it up; she'd be lying if she said she didn't feel any pleasure from watching someone who had hurt innocents realize their entire world was about to come crashing down on top of them. She'd also admit that clearing someone they knew to be innocent had a good feeling, almost comparable to rescuing a victim.

On the other hand, watching someone you knew to be innocent – the only one to know that – be treated like a criminal, accused of committing horrific acts was far, far worse. Being unable to tell anyone else how you knew they were innocent was almost unbearable.

She watched as Scott unknowingly walked right into a cleverly-laid trap – giving information that incriminated himself. And now there was virtually no way to get out of it.

* * *

><p>Scott leaped back in his chair at Brighton's words. He could barely hear anything over the racing of his heart. His eyes went as wide as saucers as he stared back at the detective. "What… You… You're telling me they're <em><strong>dead<strong>__?!"_

Brighton ignored him. "Was it one step too many?" he asked aggressively. "One betrayal too many, Jackson? Your girlfriend thought you weren't man enough, so she went to someone who was? Is that what sent you over the edge, made you snap?"

Scott's mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. In his haste to be helpful, he'd given information and answered questions without asking for a lawyer. Then again, he never thought he needed one. Why would he? They hadn't read him his rights and he'd thought the biggest issue he'd have was Agent Prentiss following through on her threats to haul him in for interfering. Now he was hearing words foreign to his daily life – murder, rape, abduction... _terrorism_? The seriousness of the situation was starting to dawn on him.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't done anything wrong." The bald-faced lie was an added hurdle as he struggled to keep his voice straight. "I think I'd like to speak with a lawyer."

"Do you need one?"

"Do I?"

"You just said you haven't done anything wrong."

"I haven't."

"Well, that's good. Then you'll be able to give us a tangible explanation for everything that says you have." Brighton leaned back and observed the young man. The kid was no veteran criminal, that was for sure, but his experience as a cop had taught him that youth was no indication of innocence. He'd made the mistake on the beat years ago of ignoring his gut when dealing with an unruly twelve year-old boy during a domestic dispute back in Nebraska. The error in judgment had earned him a razorblade swipe across the face that missed his eye by half an inch. Jackson, it seemed, was typical of young adult offenders: cocky, arrogant, thinking they could talk their way out of anything - until you nailed their balls to the wall. The way he'd been intermittently biting the inside of his cheek since the interrogation began convinced Brighton the kid was lying about something. And when that something could very well involve the abduction of a young woman, the detective wasn't about to put on kid gloves to deal with him.

"I don't know what you're talking about with… with this." Scott indicated to the photos. "I haven't committed any crime. But before I say anything else, I want to talk to a lawyer."

"That might be a problem," JJ said.

"Why? It's my right, isn't it?"

"For the straightforward murder cases, it is. But terrorism is largely a matter for the FBI, and we believe these murders are connected to the bombings. Federal law is a bit different, especially in these circumstances." JJ's voice was hard and clear. "That means that under the Patriot Act, we can detain you as long as we want without charge or representation."

Scott stared at her. "So what, you're just going to keep me here _indefinitely_?"

"Until we're satisfied."

"What I'm curious to know," Brighton said, "is why? Why the first two victims? I mean, I'll admit I can understand the last two. Your girl screws another guy, someone you thought of as a friend behind your back. Those two have gotta pay, I get that. But why Ramos? Why Bridget Silver?"

"I didn't do anything to them. I never even saw or knew about them until today."

"Was it that they were too happy in their own lives and you couldn't stand it? Or was it because you found out they had control over their relationships?" Brighton leaned forward, right into Scott's personal space so close he could see the sweat beading on the young man's forehead. "Ramos was happily married, had a baby daughter - a symbol of his relationship - with a white woman. A Hispanic mechanic with only a high school degree was able to get what you couldn't. Silver had the guts to give her criminal boyfriend the boot, clean herself up, get a job and go back to school. Must have really burned your ass when you found out a girl who stole, did drugs and got arrested was making something of herself while you slaved day in and day out for a thankless boss who considered you _**nothing**_." He let the word reverberate around the room and slap him in the face, watched as he flinched.

"And then there was Suzy, strutting around, going around behind your back and seeing a guy you thought of as a friend," JJ added without a shred of sympathy in her voice. "She was brainless and stupid, but she made you feel you were worth something, like a real man. But Chris actually _was_ a real man, could please her in ways you could never even imagine. So the double-crossing bastard and the cheating bitch had to pay. You probably were planning to kill more people before you did them, but that phone call yesterday made you snap and forced you to move up your schedule. You didn't go straight home last night; you found out where they were parked and saw that she was giving him oral sex. I bet she didn't do that for you. Not man enough for that; only _real _men get to enjoy that perk. So what better time to kill both of them for their betrayals? Where'd you get the gun, Scott?"

"I don't..." Scott fumbled for words. The ache in his gut long forgotten, he tried to match the onslaught that was coming straight at him. There was no hiding the thin layer of sweat covering his forehead which shone like the sun in the bright ceiling lights. "I don't have a gun. I've never even handled one!"

"There's no record of you having purchased one, that's true. But it's not true you've never handled one, is it? Come on, Scott," JJ smiled at him. "You're an intelligent guy. You know that any crime lab in the country would match the bullets from the scene as coming from one you purchased. No, I think you got one off the radar; whether you bought it from a dealer or stole it, I don't know, but it was enough to do the job on Chris and Suzy."

"Had to shoot them. Both of them, but especially Jordan," Brighton added. "Guy's bigger and stronger than you. Would've kicked your ass if you hadn't had the gun. Same thing would've happened with Ramos if you hadn't struck him from behind instead of fighting him head on like a man. Fucking coward. Still, it was easy to grab a woman half your size. Where is she, Jackson?"

"I didn't -"

"Yes, you **did**," JJ snapped. "You killed them, all of them. You castrated and beat Hector Ramos to death. You raped and tortured Bridget Silver. And then, after you murdered Suzy and Chris, you abducted Kim Seo-yeon. What caused you to do that? The rush of having just killed the two people who'd humiliated you? Or was it something else? The fact that she was Asian? Tell me and help us make sense of it."

"I swear I've never seen that woman in my life!" Scott's eyes darted between the two of them. "I didn't do anything to any of these people. You have to believe me!"

"We don't have to believe anything. The charges are racking up, Scott. First degree murder, rape, torture, kidnapping – it all equals hard time in prison. And that's without the terrorism charges. Once you add those in, it goes federal. You'll face the death penalty."

"Or," Brighton said, "You can tell us the truth starting with where Seo-yeon is. If you do that, we **might** think about offering you a plea. But you damn well better start talking."

Scott's face was pale and sweaty; his lips dry almost to the point of cracking from lack of saliva. "Listen," he said hoarsely, licking them in a desperate attempt to moisten them. "If I knew where this woman was, I swear on my life I would tell you. But I don't know where she is. I've never seen her before and I didn't do anything to her. I didn't kill anyone or harm any of these people. You have to believe me."

The door creaked open. Hotch walked back in and stood between JJ and Brighton. Scott thought maybe, just maybe, he was coming in to say that this was all just a big misunderstanding. The hard look in his eyes quickly shot that line of thought down.

"Mr. Jackson, you're facing very serious crimes. It's in your best interest to be truthful with us."

"I **am** being truthful!" Scott said forcefully. "You think I'd lie to you about something like this?"

"You said after you left your friend's home last night, you took the bus straight back to your apartment?"

"Yes."

"Which bus?" This time it was Hotch who spoke forcefully.

Scott was caught off guard. "What?"

"_Which_ bus did you take home?"

"I…" Scott again fumbled, racking his brain frantically for an answer. The number of the bus he had planned on taking home the previous night had almost completely vanished from his mind. "I think it was the… 17 Queens East one."

"What time did you get on?"

"About nine… forty-five."

"And what time did you get home?"

"I don't know. Maybe quarter after ten."

"You sure?"

Scott hesitated and bit the inside of his cheek. "Yes."

"Well, that's very strange considering we checked all the buses' surveillance cameras for that area last night and there's not a single shot of you getting on any of them. And here's something else - the manager of your apartment was cleaning the lobby between ten and ten-thirty. Now there's a front entrance and a back entrance, both accessible from the lobby, yet curiously the manager swears that no one came in or out of either during that time."

Whatever blood was left in Scott's face drained away. He could feel his heart now literally pounding in his chest. His hands began to tremble. If he had been in Hotch's position watching himself, he would've said without question that he was guilty. "I… but…"

"But what?" Brighton asked. "You didn't think we'd check that? Thought you could lie your way out of that no problem?"

"No, I -"

"Where's Kim Seo-yeon?"

"I don't know."

Brighton suddenly leaned forward and slammed his hands on the table, making Scott jump back in shock. "**WHERE. IS. SHE**?!" he roared.

"I swear I don't know!" Scott looked between the three frantically. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

Hotch's mouth tightened. He'd hoped things wouldn't have been as difficult as this. In cases of missing persons, every moment lost diminished the chances of the finding the person alive. And if Jackson was still going to act like he knew nothing, the former prosecutor had no qualms about taking off his own kid gloves.

He leaned in close. "Because I don't believe you," he said a low but dangerous tone. "Because I think you know a lot more than you're telling us."

"I don't -"

"Bullshit," Brighton swore. "You're honestly saying you're telling the God's honest truth? If you are, I'll eat my damn badge."

"We've all been doing this for too long, Scott," JJ was saying. "You may think you can just talk your way out of this, but it's not going to work. Neither is lying. Come on, Scott. You know as well as us you didn't go home last night. You were downtown, stalking Chris Jordan and Suzy McMillian. When you found them, you made sure they paid for humiliating you. Made sure you shot off Chris' penis first so he couldn't be a man anymore. And after that, I don't know if you came across Seo-yeon or were stalking her before, but you took her."

"No, I didn't. No, it didn't happen."

She got from her chair, walked around behind him and knelt down so she could murmur right in his ear. "Oh, it happened. And if it turns out you've harmed her in any way, we're going to nail you for that too."

"I want a lawyer."

"I don't think so. The only way you get any kind of a break is by telling the truth. And you'll start by telling us where she is."

"I told you, I don't know!"

"You know what happens to sex offenders in jail?" Brighton asked. "They're the lowest of the low. Something bad happens to them, not one person will care in the slightest. And something _will_ happen, I can promise you."

"I didn't do anything, I swear!" Scott shouted. "**I have a witness**!"

* * *

><p>"Huh," Rossi remarked in Observation. "This should be interesting."<p>

Most of the other people in the room voiced their agreement, nodded their heads.

The sole exception neither moved nor spoke. She thought her heart might leap out of her mouth if she did.

* * *

><p>Hotch stared at the man across from him. "Say that again?"<p>

Scott swallowed hard. The words were out of his mouth before he could think about them. No way of going back now. "I – I have a witness. For last night."

"Who?" Brighton demanded.

"A woman."

Brighton rolled his eyes. "Give me a break."

"I swear it's true!"

"Just like how you went home on the bus last night was true?"

"What woman?" Hotch asked.

"I – I'm not sure. Just a woman."

Brighton snorted and leaned back. "What, some woman you just happened to meet on the street?"

"Yeah!"

"What was her name?"

"Um…" Scott folded his hands together so tightly, his nails turned ghost white. He was beginning to feel a lot like the men who'd been caught on _Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator"_ making a date online for sex with a minor. When confronted, some of them tried to make up a story as to why they had come to the decoy house, often having to think them up right on the spot and trying to go with them even in the face of all the overwhelming evidence. They ranged from wanting to warn the child about the dangers of chatting online to thinking the house was for sale. Scott had often shaken his head and wondered how those guys had ever thought those stories would be believable and how they could hang on to them despite the physical evidence. Now he understood, for the first time, how much stress those guys must have been feeling while being questioned.

"Well?" Brighton was saying.

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember? Well, what did she look like?"

"Um… she was… red-haired, I think. About twenty. Short, petite. Kind of nerdy-looking, I think. She, um, had glasses. Thick ones. And freckles."

"Freckles?" It was Hotch who spoke.

"Yeah, lots of freckles."

"So you remember all that, yet you don't remember her name?"

Scott shrugged. "I'm sorry, I just… can't think of it." He was doing alright, he thought. That actually sounded pretty convincing. Maybe they bought it.

Hotch, JJ and Brighton exchanged brief glances. On their minds was the same thing: _The guy's lying through his teeth_.

"And yet you were with this woman – I'm presuming you spent the night with her?" At Scott's nod, Brighton went on. "Where did you go?"

"Go?"

"Well, I'm guessing you didn't sleep with her on the street, right? So where'd you go? We already know it wasn't back to your apartment. Did you go to her place? Did you go to a hotel? Where was it?"

"I – at a motel."

"Which one? Where was it?"

The questions came at Scott faster than he could think. "I -"

"Quick!" And the jolt shook Scott again. "Where was it?"

"Near the bus stop, I think."

"You think. And what do you think the name of this motel was?"

Scott bit the inside of his cheek so hard it was a miracle he didn't start bleeding. "I don't know. I didn't pay much attention to it."

"So let me get this straight," JJ began, still behind him. "You picked up a woman down by where your bus stop is and took her somewhere and spent the night with her, but don't remember her name or where you two spent the night?"

Her tone made it sound as if he had told them he had just come from the future in a time-travelling DeLorean DMC-12, but it was what he'd said so he had to stick with it. "Yes."

Brighton stared at him unbelievingly for a moment. "You know, I've interrogated a lot of people in my career, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I have never heard someone spew as big a load of bullshit as that."

Scott stared back at him. He didn't know what to say. That he was telling the truth? That itself would be a lie and it was clear they knew he was already lying. But what else could he do? Tell the actual truth? That would sound even more outlandish than what he'd already said; they'd never believe him. And besides, he couldn't tell them the truth; to do so would mean… something bad would happen, and probably not to him.

"You know, I really have to give you credit, Scott. Most people when they have to make up a story are so panicked at what will happen to them if the truth is discovered that they'll continue lying even when they know they're caught," JJ said. "But you're a smart man. You know when things are just too incredible to believe. And you're not really too good at thinking on your feet, are you? Need more time to plan out what you're going to do and say. The cocky persona doesn't really fit you, does it?"

Scott looked across the table at the two men, at their faces set in stone. He had to try to make them understand that this was a big mistake, even if he couldn't tell them the reason it was. "Please," he said in a low voice; he no longer had the fortitude to speak loudly. "I didn't do anything to anybody. I swear to you on my life I didn't. You have to believe me."

Hotch watched him critically. "But the evidence says otherwise. Would you be willing to repeat your story during a polygraph test?"

Scott shook his head. How could he? If he did that, he was sure the screen would crack under the pressure. He may as well sign a confession right here and now.

"I didn't think so." Hotch looked beside him. "Detective Brighton?"

"Go on, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch rose in his seat. "Scott Jackson, because of the overwhelming evidence and your continuing refusal to tell us the truth, you leave us no choice. Under the Patriot Act, we're detaining you as a suspected enemy combatant in the bombings in New York City. Because you're facing federal charges, you will be held according to federal law, but because you're also a suspect in a missing person case, that case will be the main focus of our investigation."

Scott's legs began to shake under the table. He knew what happened in jail to people accused of sexual crimes; he'd heard about it often enough. It didn't matter that he was innocent; if people heard someone was accused of being a sexual predator, in their eyes he was guilty as sin and deserved to suffer. And Brighton was right about one thing; in prison, no one shed a tear if such a prisoner had an 'accident' and no one 'saw' anything. In there, he'd be with hundreds of _real_ criminals, most of whom were at least twice his size.

At Hotch's gesture, Scott slowly stood up, struggling not to stumble and fall from the way his legs were shaking so much. _This can't be happening_, he thought as JJ pulled his arms behind his back. _It's gotta be some kind of bad joke, someone's idea of a prank_. The clinking of handcuffs on his wrists quickly dispelled that idea.

JJ pushed him out of the room. As they paused briefly just outside the doorway while she waited for the others, he shot a look around him and froze.

Barely ten feet away, another person froze.

For a brief moment, their eyes locked. Their faces, hiding barely repressed emotion, remained unchanged. It seemed like both of them were waiting for the other to make a move, but neither of them did.

Then Brighton took hold of Scott's arm and pushed him forward. He held the look a split second longer until a door forced their gaze to break.

Emily watched as the door clicked shut behind them.

**TBC…**


	24. I-23

**Author's Notes:**

**- Hickory switches were at one time common for use of corporal punishment in schools and at home.**

**- A shorter chapter, I know, but a harbinger of good things to come. :)**

* * *

><p>Angie could no longer stop the tears from rolling down her face.<p>

She had never considered her life to be especially special up to this point, but right now everything she could remember in it prior to her waking up in this dark hole she considered a gift from God.

Her wrists were raw, cut and swollen; the constant rubbing of the chains against her flesh combined with her discreet but failed attempts to free herself had resulted only in drawing blood. First they'd burned, then they'd stung. Now the only positive thing about her current predicament was that she could no longer feel anything beyond her elbows.

Not that it mattered; she already had had enough pain to compensate for it.

The man was cruel in his actions. He had left her alone for hours in the dark where she hung in agony, unable to see anything in the dark, jumping at the slightest sound. Then when he did come back the cruelty increased tenfold. Using first a leather belt and then a cane that he called a hickory switch, he viciously beat her legs, front and back. He took care not to break any bones, making sure she felt the most amount of pain possible, all while shouting at her that this was her punishment for disobeying God and the only way to absolve her of all her sins. She'd screamed until she couldn't scream anymore, and then, when she could no longer feel her legs, kept the pain inside and endured it silently. She'd long given up any hope of someone hearing her calls for help and feared any sound she made now would only egg him on or, even worse, make him madder.

It was when he went away again that she allowed the tears to flow. Not tears of pain – for at that moment her body was so numb she could no longer feel any pain – but of fear. Before he'd started the beating, she'd wanted to ask him why he was doing this. What kind of man would do this to _anyone_? Angie was not really a religious person but she had no idea where in the Bible it said that kidnapping people and beating them was justified.

Now she didn't want to know the answers. He was sick and twisted - that was all she could come up with. No man would do this another human being.

Not a man, but a _**monster**_**.**

It was a funny thing. She could remember as a young girl being scared of the dark and what may be lurking within the shadows, under her bed and in her closet. She remembered expressing her fears to her mother and asking her if monsters really existed.

"_Don't be silly,"_ her mother responded. _"Of course they're not real. It's just a lot of superstitious nonsense that children make up when they don't have enough to do and too much of an imagination."_

Well, her mother had been wrong – monsters _were_ real. They may not lurk under your bed ready to grab you and pull you under into their waiting mouths, but they did hide in the shadows, waiting to lure you into their cleverly-laid traps.

There was a squeak as the door opened up again and the man stepped back into the room. He made a great show of coming down the steps as slowly as possible, smirking and never taking his eyes off of her. Angie felt herself begin to tremble with fear.

"Well, bless my soul," he said as he came near her. "Looks like our little friend is starting to break a little bit. Tell me something, darling; are those tears of fear or of shame?"

When she merely stared back at him, he chuckled. "Of course. How forgetful I am." Reaching up, he pulled the gag out of her mouth. "There now. That's so much better, isn't it?"

He reached towards her face, his fingertips brushing against the tear lines. The mere feeling of his skin on hers sent a wave of disgust through her stomach and she pulled away from him. "Don't touch me," she hissed, her voice hoarse from lack of water.

He slapped her across the face - hard. "**Don't you DARE tell me what to do, you little slut!**" he shouted, grabbing her on both sides of her jaw and forcing him to look at her. The alternate oily side of him had disappeared, replaced in a flash by a look of pure rage. "You do that again and I'll cut your blasphemous tongue out of your head!"

Angie could barely breathe; her jaw ached in agony under his tightening grip. More disgust swept through her as he sent spit flying into her face with each word. Her fear was now mixing in with something else – anger, so strong it might just match his. She wanted to spit back in his face, but knew if she did that he would likely snap. So she kept her mouth closed, praying that he would just go away.

"Then again, maybe I should cut it out anyway." A sudden sick smile appeared on his face as he suddenly grew much calmer. He reached down and pulled something out of his pocket. In the low light, Angie couldn't see what it was until he hit something on the small dark object in his hand. There was a _click_ and a flash in the dark; a long pointed blade popped out of the handle. "That way, you won't be able to speak your devilish words, corrupt and contaminate other children, turn them away from God."

He held the knife so the point was barely an inch away from her lips. Angie closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see it. And also so he wouldn't be able to see the terror in them. He was getting off on seeing her fear, and she'd be damned if she gave him that pleasure.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, darling." He moved the blade up and pressed it against her cheek. "Look at me or you're going to have a new permanent smile."

Angie cracked her eyes open a fraction, willing herself to not cry. "Please… I just want to go home."

"Home?" The man seemed surprised and gave a hearty laugh. "Darling, you _are _home. You're in God's home. God loves all His children as long as they obey Him. Children of God don't go around whoring themselves and try to procure a pill to kill off all His children before they're even conceived."

Angie couldn't believe her ears. _That_ was what he was so mad about? Her prescription for birth control?

"Children of God obey Him. And you're going to obey, aren't you?"

He pressed the blade harder into her flesh. This time Angie couldn't hide her fear as she shook. "No, _please_," she begged.

"Oh, so you're _not_ going to obey, is that what you're telling me? You're not gonna obey old Paul? You're going to disobey God and continue your heathen, whoring ways?"

"No." Though her voice was weak, she shook her head vigorously. "No, please, I'll obey. I…I'll give up my old ways, I swear. I'll live a godly life, I promise. But please... _don't do this_."

The silence that followed was deafening, so quiet that Angie could swear she heard her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment she feared she had only made things worse. But what else was she to do? If the man had reached up and released her from her chains at that moment, her legs would have given out; there was no possibility of running or fighting him. The only thing she didn't know was what would have caused her collapse – the beating or her fear.

After several moments, the man's impassive face gave way to a grin. "A godly life," he repeated, thankfully taking the knife away. "You sure about that?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes, I swear!"

"Well now, darling, looks like there might be hope for you yet! I'm glad you, at least, have started to see the light. The others didn't accept it nearly so easily."

Angie stared back at him. "Others?"

"Oh absolutely! You think you're the only misguided soul in this city?"

"What did you do to them?" She could no longer keep the tremble out of her voice.

"You don't worry your pretty little head about that. Just remember what you said. We're going to see if your newfound faith in God is really real." His eyes suddenly hardened. "Or if you're just another lying witch trying to beguile your way out of His judgment."

If Angie had had anything in her stomach, she was sure she would have thrown it up at that point. "Please... just let me go. My family must be worried sick about me. I won't tell anyone anything, I swear. I don't even know where we are, so I wouldn't know where to lead them. I'll go straight to the nearest church, confess all my sins, and embrace God into my life. I give you my word."

His eyes didn't soften. "The word of a woman is always a lie." Then hardened even more. "Which is why you're lying now about surrendering yourself to God."

"No, I'm not -"

"And **because** of your lying, traitorous ways," he carried on as if she hadn't spoken, "your purification will go ahead as planned." He gave her another cruel smile. "But don't worry, sugar. By the end of it, you _will _be cured of all your sins. And then you'll be ready to meet God and convince Him to show you some mercy. Soon, darling… _very soon_."

He turned on his heel and walked out the door. As it locked behind him, Angie felt the tears brim in her eyes again. Now she had no illusions about what was waiting her. The last hope she had of any kind of mercy from that man vanished with the lock.

Now that any delusions of pity from him were gone, she began to see the real picture. The man had left her ungagged, which meant he had no worries about anyone hearing her. He had made no attempt to obscure his face, he spoke to her about "the others" and now he was talking about her meeting God. Angie knew now without question that she was in the custody of a killer, one who had murdered more than one person before. There was no doubt in her mind that he would kill her too. The only question now was how long he planned to keep her alive – and hurt her.

She made an effort to move her head to the side to wipe the tears from her eyes. As she shifted her position, she was suddenly aware of something – the full weight of her toes was now on the ground.

Angie's mind made quick calculation; if she was now able to stand on all her toes, her weight must have shifted downward at some point. Her arms were too numb for her to feel it, but there was only one explanation – **her hands must have slid looser out of the chains.**

Angie could barely breathe. She feared for a moment it was all an illusion, one that would vanish as soon as she moved. But as she shifted her weight again, she could again feel her full 110lbs on the upper section of her feet. Now she knew it wasn't an illusion – _the chains were loosening_.

As quietly as possible, she began to twist and turn her arms, trying to loosen her hands even more. Her wrists were numb, making pain a non-issue, but she stopped every fifteen seconds or so. Eager as she was to get the hell out of here, grinding her flesh away to the bone wouldn't do her any favours. As soon as she judged it was safe, she went right back at, all the while keeping an ear out for any signs of his return.

_Come on_, she thought. _Come __**on**__..._

_**TBC…**_


	25. I-24

**Author's notes:**

**- Fort Knox is a highly secure U.S. Army base in Kentucky which houses the United States Bullion Depository.**

**- Information on wrongful convictions comes from the US National Registry of Exonerations. According to their most recent report in Apr. 2013, New York ranked fourth among states between 1989 - 2013 with 107 exonerations. They were behind only California (125), Texas (117) and Illinois (114). The next state after it, Michigan, had only 41.**

**- The Biblical quote in full is John 8:32: "Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."**

* * *

><p>There are few places in New York where one can go for complete and absolute peace. The sheer size of the city, with eight million people living in the metropolitan area alone, makes it incredibly difficult to find a spot to reflect quietly. Unless you have the privilege of going into your own home, there's not really a whole lot you can do to get away from the hustle and bustle of lunch hour in the largest city in North America.<p>

Not long after Scott Jackson's interrogation, Emily had upped and walked out of the precinct. She kept walking, not really keeping track of where she was going. Only that she had to get as far away from there as possible. She was sure that if she'd stayed there much longer, someone would knock on a bathroom stall asking her if she was alright and be treated to the pleasant sound of her upchucking what little breakfast she'd eaten.

So she walked.

And walked.

And then walked some more.

Block after block after block.

If Emily was being truthful, she didn't know what it was she truly felt – disgust with herself for watching without saying anything, anger at Scott that he didn't defend himself better, relief that her secret had not been revealed, or frustration at the whole situation. The latter emotion she had certainly felt enough of during her conversation with Hotch when she managed to get him alone a few minutes after the questioning had ended.

* * *

><p><em>Flashback…<em>

"_What do you mean he fits the profile? As far as I can remember, we haven't even finalized one yet!"_

_Hotch's eyes were weary, possibly from fatigue at having just conducted a tense interrogation on such a serious set of crimes, and didn't look eager on having another disagreement with the black-haired woman. "If the physical evidence is there and there are enough behavioral patterns that suggest the person is guilty, we have to look into it. We can't wait around for the UnSub to strike again just to deliver a final profile to the local authorities. If we have a lead, we need to take it."_

_Emily felt like tearing out her hair. "Hotch, you talk about the physical evidence, but there is no real evidence! We figured this UnSub is taking things that mean something to their victims, right? He castrated Ramos, ripped out Bridget Silver's tongue and kept her bra, and stole Chris and Suzy's driver's licenses. The forensics unit found no evidence of any of those things or any crime or cleanup attempt at Jackson's apartment. You were there when Brighton got the call about it."_

"_If this UnSub is torturing and killing his victims, then it's very likely he'd have a spot to do that without fear of being heard," Hotch replied coolly. "We talked to some of the residents of the building; the walls are thin enough to hear people having a conversation in the next unit. If Jackson is the UnSub and he abducted Kim Seo-yeon, he's not stupid enough to keep her in a place where people could hear her calling for help."_

"_But there's nothing that says he's the UnSub!" It was the closest thing she could muster without coming out and saying that she __**knew**__ Scott was innocent and have to explain how she knew it._

"_One," Hotch started, "he was captured on surveillance camera walking towards the scene of the crime -"_

"_Dressed in workout clothes and carrying a gym bag. If he abducted Seo-yeon, how would he transport her? He doesn't have a car and I doubt he thought he could just carry her by himself without any risk of being seen."_

"_Unless the place was a short distance away. We're looking into that as well. Two, he had a heated argument over the phone with Suzy hours before she and Chris were killed. Three, he lied about his alibi last night at their TOD, then provided another one that can in almost no way be verified."_

_**Which is not too far off from the truth,**__ Emily thought._

"_Four, he was among the most nervous people we've ever questioned."_

"_As I'm sure plenty of people would be if they were stuck in a room, denied a lawyer, were accused of horrific crimes and started hearing words like 'prison' and 'death penalty,'" she shot back. "I sometimes wonder just how many people are convicted of crimes they didn't commit just because they acted a certain way when under pressure."_

"_And five," the prosecutor finished, "he has the education for creating explosives like the ones used in the bombings."_

"_Two years of college. That's barely anything. Garcia's been all over his phone records and hasn't found anyone he's talked to that raises an alarm bell. You don't just suddenly acquire knowledge for that, Hotch. You have to learn it, be taught it. And as far as we can tell he hasn't been in contact with anyone long enough to learn it. We're taking a stab in the dark here; he barely fits the minimal profile we have and there is no physical evidence linking him to the murders, the bombings or the abduction. There's no reason to hold him." She gave her boss a hard look. "Unless you're hoping he breaks under the threat of capital punishment and confesses. If that's true, then I wasn't aware that was the kind of unit we're running now."_

"_Prentiss, I'm not saying for certain he's one of the UnSubs, but anyone who lies that much needs to be looked at closely."_

"_Brighton is running around in circles," she argued. "He has no idea the kind of people he's dealing with and he's screwing around treating this like a typical homicide case where you can just frighten the most likely suspect into confessing. I'm pretty sure if he hadn't gone off on Jackson the way he did with the crime scene photos, the interrogation wouldn't have gone the way it did."_

_Hotch's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer into her personal space. "Our job is to work alongside local law enforcement without interfering with their jurisdiction. How they decide to handle their affairs is their responsibility, even if we disagree with it. Rogue operations are not something we practice on a daily basis."_

_The hidden meaning behind his words was not lost on Emily. Clenching her jaw and forcing herself not to spit out the first response that came into her mind, she said, "There is nothing rogue about trying to find the truth, Hotch. You want my opinion as a fellow profiler? Well here it is: __**Scott Jackson is NOT the UnSub. **__I don't believe he's guilty of anything except being a cocky, arrogant young man who panicked when put in an interrogation room and accused of being a terrorist and sexual predator."_

"_Duly noted. In the meantime, our primary response is finding Kim Seo-yeon. Jackson is a suspect in her disappearance unless and until the evidence proves otherwise."_

_Emily took a deep breath, lest she execute her boss out of sheer frustration. The last time she checked, all people in this country were innocent until proven guilty - except, she supposed, when you followed a federal agent up to her room instead of getting your ass onto a bus right where a video camera could see you. Then you were a murderer, a kidnapper and a terrorist, all because you let your junk do your thinking for you instead of your brain. __**What a damn mess**__._

"_And so he stays locked up like a common criminal?" she asked. "Oh, except, I forgot: criminals get lawyers. People __**suspected**__ of terrorism are less than human, so they don't get that right."_

_Hotch eyed her suspiciously. "You're talking as though you've known him for years. Is there something you're not telling me?"_

_**Yes Hotch, there is. It's that I know the reason he's innocent is because he was in my room at the time of the murders and the abduction. And if the walls in that motel weren't as thick as the walls at Fort Knox, you would know it too**__._

_Emily bit her tongue. "No, nothing."_

_Hotch looked at her suspiciously for another moment. Apparently deciding that she was telling the truth, which told her how good an actor she truly was, he nodded. "Fine."_

_She let out a deep breath. "I'm gonna go… get some air. I think my headache's coming back."_

"_Are you alright?" he asked._

"_Yeah," she responded, turning on her heel. "Perfect."_

_End flashback…_

* * *

><p>It was no wonder she had done so well undercover in previous years, she thought. If Jackson had <em>half<em> of her ability to tell a convincing lie, he might still be a free man. But he didn't, and he wasn't. And part of that was her fault.

Finally stopping at a bench at a small park, she sat down heavily. It was then, removed from the atmosphere that she almost drowned in, that she was able to realize what the implications were in this case.

Jackson had proven himself a liar during interrogation, effectively setting him up as someone whose word was not to be trusted in the eyes of the authorities. The circumstantial evidence against him, whether or not she knew it was ultimately meaningless, was notable, his weak attempts at a false alibi torn to shreds. His apparent lack of knowledge of his rights had caused him to walk right into the jaws of the lion, and the only person who could prove that he was innocent was running away from him.

Emily knew that, however she looked at the situation, she was – to put it mildly – effectively screwed. If she told the truth about the previous night, she would be finished professionally. For an agent to fraternize with someone involved in a federal investigation went against every rule and regulation in the book. If she admitted to what she did, she would be fired, stricken from the FBI's record and considered, in essence, a traitor to the Bureau. After all the hard work she'd done to land the job on her own, amid all the criticism and suspicion of 'the ambassador's daughter,' she'd be lucky if she could find work as a secretary at any government building on U.S. soil.

On the other hand, if she continued to lie and remain silent, Scott Jackson could be sent to prison for crimes he didn't commit. That was something she **couldn't** allow; as arrogant and aggravating as he could be, he didn't deserve that. And as much as Brighton pissed her off, he was right about one thing: in prison, people accused of the kinds of crimes Scott was accused of were _despised_. Sarcasm and fast-talking wouldn't do him much good in a facility with real rapists and murderers where someone could get killed in the middle of a room surrounded by hundreds of people and yet curiously no one "saw" anything.

Yep, she was pretty much screwed. But what was she to do? Say nothing and hope Scott would be cleared in due process? She watched as a group of teenage girls walked by, chatting excitedly, laughing without a care in the world. It reminded her of the other innocent party in this whole sorry mess. While she sat here agonizing about choosing between her life and that of a man who'd driven her to the brink of insanity a few days ago, Kim Seo-yeon was still in the hands of the real UnSub. If her hunch was right, he would want to keep her alive for as long as possible, but how long would that be? And how much would he hurt her in the meantime? By the time everything got sorted out, she could long be dead and forgotten to all but those who knew her. And besides, what guarantee was there that Scott would be cleared? New York State had one of the highest wrongful conviction rates in the country. Who's to say he wouldn't be just another statistic?

_The truth will set you free_. Emily snorted. Whoever had written that verse in the Bible, whether God or man, clearly hadn't foreseen circumstances like this.

She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn't notice the figure walking towards her and standing beside her until they spoke. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Emily jumped, her heart in her mouth, until she saw the surprised face of the short older woman with white hair, thick glasses and a green coat. "Huh? Oh…yes, of course." She moved over to make room.

"Thank you so much, dear." As the woman sat down, she gave Emily a warm smile. "I apologize if I startled you. You seemed deep in thought."

"It's nothing, really." Emily chuckled. "Actually, I probably should be apologizing to you. I must have scared you with my reaction."

This time it was the woman who chuckled. "That's quiet alright. I've seen enough things over my long life that it takes more than that to frighten me. But where on Earth are my manners? My name's Mary."

She extended her hand, which Emily shook. "Emily."

"Emily. That's a nice name. My mother's name was Emily."

The dark-haired woman nodded politely and stared straight. "I hope you don't think I'm rude," she started, "but if you're looking for someone to share joy with, I doubt you'll find much with me."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "So it's not really 'nothing' that's bothering you."

"It's…" Emily folded her hands. "It's complicated."

"Perhaps I can help. They say that talking about what's bothering you is very good for the soul. Speaking from experience – and believe, I have plenty – I can say that is almost always true."

Emily gave the woman another polite smile. "Thank you. I appreciate the offer. But I don't think it's going to help. Besides I don't want to burden you with my problems."

"It wouldn't be the first time today someone's thought that."

"Trust me; you don't want to hear what's on my mind."

Mary nodded. "As you wish, my dear."

The two women sat in silence for a moment. Across the park, Emily watched a young couple walk down the path holding hands. A sudden inexplicable feeling of envy suddenly bubbled up inside her. Combined with all the other emotion she was feeling, it may as well have been another five hundred pound bag of rocks on her back. She bit her lip and looked away.

"Such a nice sight, don't you think?" Her companion was saying.

"I'm sorry?"

"Young love. The coming together of two people who share a mutual attraction. It's a lovely sight, isn't it?"

Emily's hands gripped tightly together. "Yes," she said tensely. "Yes, it is."

"Do you have someone in your life like that, dear?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Everyone is deserving of a mate, a lifelong companion. I've always believed that a healthy relationship is the key to a healthy life – even if one doesn't recognize it at first."

Perhaps it was the _way_ that last part was phrased, as if the woman were directing it directly at her, that caught Emily's attention. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

Mary merely smiled. "The words of an old woman. A desire to see the world in a better light in my later years. I don't suppose you're interested in hearing the wisdom of an old lady."

"No," Emily said sharply. "I'm sorry to be so blunt, but right now I'm not interested in hearing any wisdom. Wisdom doesn't do much good to solve an issue."

She thought she might have offended the woman enough to make her leave, but Mary remained seated, looking at her interestedly. "You're a federal agent."

The sentence was so unexpected and said so casually – as a statement, not as a question – that it caught Emily completely off guard. "I- I'm sorry?" she sputtered.

"You do work with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, don't you?"

"I – how…?"

"How do I know?" Mary gave a knowing smile. "Wisdom, my dear. Wisdom and experience."

Emily took a deep breath. "I have no idea how that could work, but it did work." She pulled out her badge and showed it as proof.

"And you're investigating those explosions that have been happening lately? The police are saying it might be terrorism."

"We're still trying to figure out exactly what's going on." _Especially with my head._ "Until then, we're not attaching a label to it."

"I understand. Though I should say that the media certainly makes it out to be. And I also must admit…" Emily looked at her as she paused. "Wisdom didn't play too big a role in knowing who you worked for. At least not as much as the television cameras from the last bombing scene."

Emily let out a groan and rubbed her temples. "I swear, the next time I see them, I'm going to break those godda-" She halted mid-sentence when she noticed the tiny golden cross hanging around her companion's neck. "Um, I mean those gosh darn cameras."

Mary smiled sympathetically but it quickly disappeared. "Truth be told, Emily – may I still call you Emily? – I have a vested interest in this case. A young man I know is in trouble in it."

_That makes two of us_. "What do you mean?"

"A neighbour of mine, a very nice young man, was visited by two men who identified themselves as FBI agents a couple of hours ago. When he didn't return quickly, I made some inquiries. I couldn't get specifics but they made it clear he was a person of interest in their investigation."

Emily could feel her heartbeat pick up. "What was his name?"

"Scott Jackson."

If she hadn't been sitting down, Emily was sure her legs would have gone out from under her. As her heart rate multiplied by about a hundred, she quickly ran through the list of names of tenants they'd compiled that lived in the same building as Scott. As far as she could tell, there was only one person with the same first name; an elderly widow who lived next door named Mary Wraith.

"Yes indeed," Mary was saying. "And if you ask me, it is absolute balderdash. I've known Mr. Jackson for several years and the last thing he would do is hurt innocent people. You can rest assured I gave the authorities a piece of my mind; at my age you speak it without fear of embarrassment. I told them there was no way he could be involved in this and if they needed a character witness for him, they could call me – Mary Wraith - any day at any time. That young man deserves someone to stand in his corner."

Struggling to maintain a neutral façade, Emily replied, "Mrs. Wraith -"

"Just Mary please, my dear."

"Mary, I can't talk about any specifics of the case but I can assure you we don't charge anyone we believe is innocent."

"Do you believe he's innocent?"

"We're following the evidence -"

"No." Mary shook her head. "That's not what I meant. I didn't ask about what the FBI thought. I asked what _you_ thought. You, as an individual, my dear."

Emily stared at the old woman for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. If she didn't know better, she would have said Mary Wraith _knew_ something. But that was impossible. There was no way she could know anything specific… could she?

"I… if I believe someone is guilty, I'll say so and if I believe they're innocent, I'll say so." _And look how much good that did_.

Mary pursed her lips and folded her hands. "What if you didn't believe someone is guilty?"

"I just said I -"

_"What if you __**knew**__ they were innocent?"_

Emily's mouth went dry as a bone. She licked her lips to moisten them, failed. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I believe you do, dear. And I think you know, deep in your heart, what will happen if you don't acknowledge it." The older woman's eyes were not harsh; nonetheless, Emily couldn't help but shrink back at her unblinking stare. "Are you really going to allow a man to go to jail when you know very well he couldn't have committed any crime? Or was that kiss you gave him two days ago merely a moment of meaningless lust?"

Emily felt as if her chest had just exploded. Panic and fear flooded through her, her heart feeling like it was going to jump out of her body. **Mrs. Wraith knew!** Her secret that she thought rested solely on the silence of two people –her and Scott - now involved an outsider! And what if there were more? Hotch had said the walls in Scott's apartment complex were thin enough to barely mask any sound. What if the entire floor had seen or heard what had happened? How long would it be before someone talked and word got back to the BAU or NYPD?

"Ma'am, I'm not sure what you thought you saw, but I can assure you you're wrong. I have never kissed Scott Jackson." It took all the acting skill Emily had to make herself sound at least partly convincing.

"And young lady, I can assure you I saw what I saw. I am not yet completely blind and I have always had a penchant for recognizing faces," Mary said reproachfully. "Besides, I had this same conversation earlier today with Scott. He denied it at first as well. You two are, in many ways, very similar, especially with your stubbornness and desire to protect the secrets of the other."

"What are you saying?"

"My dear, if Scott has not proven that he is innocent of the crimes of which he's accused, there are only two possible explanations: he is either guilty – and I have already given you my thoughts on that – or he is protecting someone else." She focused her eyes on Emily's. "Someone who would be in a very bad position should the truth come out, who could possibly lose her job for acting on her feelings. And it just so happens that occurred on the same night that he needed to account for his actions. _Scott doesn't have an alibi for last night because __**he was with you**__._"

"How…" Words failed the FBI agent. She found herself merely staring back into the eyes of the old woman.

"Scott told me everything that happened last night. Or at least enough that I could figure out what had happened. He didn't spend the night with you because of the thrill of it, Emily Prentiss; he did it because he'd found a woman that was **worth** spending the night with. You know how many times his last girlfriend spent the entire night with him? It wasn't even half the time; believe me, I know. So when a man chooses to protect a woman's reputation even after she told him to never come see her again, I'd say that says something about that man, don't you?"

Emily was shocked. In fact, if she were any more shocked than she was right now, she was sure her jaw would've hit the ground. Her first thoughts were that Scott had betrayed her secret, but now it was far more complicated than that. The whole time in Observation listening to the interrogation, she'd assumed his feeble attempts at an alibi were exclusively to try to save his own ass while she was just an afterthought. But now… could it be true? No, it couldn't - unless...

_He'd been actively trying to keep her involvement a secret – __**for her?**_

"So now the dilemma once again rears its head," Mary said. "To save a man's life, you must risk your own safety. But this time, it would not be merely as part of your duty. It could very possibly mean the end of everything you've worked so hard to achieve. So the question is, Agent Prentiss, _are you willing to make that decision?"_

"I…" Emily fumbled nervously. "I don't know."

Mary pursed her lips again. "I see."

Something about those two short words sparked something in Emily; she felt a sudden surge of anger. "You _see_?" she snapped. "See what? See the answer so clearly? See what absolutely must be done? The answer to you is straightforward, isn't it? In your mind, there's only one solution and it all rests on me."

She wheeled to face the woman directly. "Well let me tell you, it's **not** as clear cut as you make it out to be! Not **half**! You think for one second I don't know what the consequences are? You think I don't know what could happen if I do something – or don't do it? This is something you know **nothing** about! I didn't ask for your help nor did I ever want it! You sit here and say you're offering wisdom? Bullshit! All I see is a foolish old woman sticking her nose somewhere where it doesn't belong! You think it's easy for me? I've put more thought into this than you can **possibly** imagine! So don't you sit here and tell me _you see_ about what I ought to do!"

She expected Mary Wraith to slap her across the face, or at least yell right back at her. But the white-haired woman did neither of those things. Staring at the FBI agent intently, she was silent for a moment and then stood up.

"Very well. I will not tell you what to do. I would have liked to think you already knew what that was before you and I even met. However, that is of little importance. You want me to leave you alone, I will; I can do more for Scott that way anyway. I will, however, leave you with this to think about.

"Scott told me without a moment's hesitation that the woman he spent the night with last night was worth it. He lied to police and implicated himself in a series of horrific crimes, knowing full well what that could mean for him. And while he sits in the no doubt dreadful conditions of New York's correctional facilities, the woman he spoke of sits out here enjoying the clean air and delicious taste of freedom all while thinking about whether his life is worth saving. The real question is - **did he ever know the real woman?**"

With those words, Mary Wraith departed, leaving a seething Emily sitting alone.

**TBC…**


	26. I-25

**Author's notes:**

**- The Golden Rule, although it has many variations, essentially states: "treat others the way you want to be treated."**

**- Riker's Island is New York City's main jail complex.**

**- Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!**

* * *

><p>Scott felt like shit.<p>

There was no other way to describe it. He felt like shit; a big steaming pile of dog shit.

Actually that was inaccurate. People actually cared about dog shit, at least enough to scrape it off the bottom of their shoe.

He had never actually thought about it before, but now he realized that there was something people considered even worse, something no one would touch even with a ten-foot pole – a suspected sexual predator.

That was the key: 'suspected'. Not proven, not convicted, but 'suspected.' That constant question of 'did he or didn't he.' _He __**says**__ he didn't do these things_…_they couldn't __**prove**__ he did, but supposing he __**did**__…_

Scott understood, for the first time, how innocent people were compelled to confess to crimes they didn't commit. Panic, fear from threats of harsh punishment if they didn't cooperate, being thrown in a cage like an animal; all things that could break a person's will to resist. Much like torture, they'd be willing to say anything to get it to stop. Guilt had nothing to do with it.

The tiny cell he'd been placed in was part of a large brightly-lit room that housed about a dozen identical cells. Long florescent lights lined the ceiling. There was barely enough room for him to walk two strides either way. The only things in the cell were a metal cot that was harder than the floor and a steel toilet and sink combination. He'd have expected, this being New York, for there to be other occupants in the cells, but he was completely alone in the room.

He was grateful for the solitude; being watched on video camera while he relieved his bladder for the first time in over half a day was humiliating enough. He didn't need a live audience.

Sitting on the bed, grimacing every time he shifted, his mind was a whirlwind as he tried to figure out something that could get him out of this situation. Now that he could think without that detective and the FBI agents telling him what a sick monster he was, he hoped he might be able to come up with something solid.

What could he do now? Fabricate another story? That hadn't gone over so well the last time; they already knew he was lying and would likely use that as further evidence against him. Remain silent and refuse to answer any more questions? Agent Jareau had said that they could detain him as long as they wanted without charging him or allowing him access to a lawyer. He didn't know whether or not that was true, but then again what good was it to refuse to answer questions if they could hold him indefinitely?

So what did that leave? Telling the truth? Scott shifted uncomfortably on his bed. That option seemed to be the least desirable of all. Not only would he likely not be believed, but he'd be putting someone else in a very awkward spot – someone who never asked to be put in it.

Agent Prentiss knew he was innocent. She could prove it. Yet when he saw her briefly before being taken away, she'd said nothing. Her face was as blank as when he'd first met her. Could he really blame her though, considering what would likely happen as a result? There would likely be consequences for her should she come forward. There was nothing to stop him from talking - trying to clear his name - and yet here he was, keeping the secret of a woman who'd once called him an asshole and threatened to break his arm this morning.

_I'm so screwed_.

As Scott hung his head – it felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds - he was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by a familiar voice right in front of him. "We need to talk."

Looking up, he was startled to see the woman in question standing on the other side of his cell in the hallway. Her body was positioned sideways, away from the door, and she leaned with one hand on the bars. Her dark hair was rumpled, as though she'd just walked for miles right into the wind. Her eyes were serious, and even if they didn't contain the harshness and accusation that his accusers had, there was no doubt she hadn't come to exchange niceties with him.

Emily took in the sight before her. Even thought it had only been an hour since she'd last seen him, she was shocked at the change in Scott's appearance. The energetic young man full of life she had known previously was now pale and downtrodden; his shoulders sagging, his arms hanging loosely down between his legs, his face ragged and unshaven, giving him an unkempt look. He had the air of someone who'd had his whole world yanked out from under him and then placed on top of his shoulders. She remembered the devastation in his face as Brighton and JJ hammered him mercilessly, accusing him of being a serial killer, rapist and kidnapper. Anyone who was more suggestible and less hard-headed might have already cracked. Another session like that while he was in this state, she thought, might very well cause him to break down and confess.

His face barely changed when he saw her. "Great, where do you wanna start? Weather? Sports scores? How important the Golden Rule is?"

"I'm trying to help you. The least you could do is pretend that you care about your life enough to make it easier to do that."

"Right, because suddenly you're concerned about my well-being." He made a move to walk towards her. "After you almost bent my arm like a pretz-"

"Don't move."

He froze in the middle of getting up. "Why?"

"The cameras in here record video but not audio," she said. "As long as we stay in these positions, they can't see our mouths moving."

It seemed remarkable and amazing to Scott that she would know something like that. Then again, she was a profiler, trained to spot small details most people would miss. No wonder he'd followed her last night, he thought; a woman like that didn't come along very often.

"So if you let something slip that you don't want overheard, they can't find someone to lip-read the tape back," he guessed, sitting back down.

It was true enough, she thought; the last thing she wanted to do was leave a bigger trace of what happened here than she wanted to. She figured she'd already risked enough by bluffing her way past the officers guarding the entrance to the holding cells. No need to call more attention to herself.

"You know, I really wish I had your poker face," he was saying. "I guess you have to perfect it because showing any kind of emotion is considered a weakness in your job. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were laughing your head off behind that mask."

And again Emily's temper rose. Who the hell did he think he was - 'if I didn't know you better?' One night and already he thought he knew her? _Arrogant bastard_. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" she demanded.

"Let me guess: enough that you actually decided to talk to me?" His tone grated further on her nerves. "Cause that's, like, totally the most serious thing that could happen!"

"Let me spell it out for you so you'll understand." She leaned forward. "You. Are. In. DEEP. **SHIT**."

Scott snorted. "Really? _That's_ what you came to tell me? Hold the presses, she's told me something I didn't know! For the record, I think I'm way beyond deep shit at this point."

"Wow, that's the smartest thing you've said all day!" she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I know. Genius, isn't it?"

"Well, since you're so smart, you'll understand the nature of the charges you're facing." She started counting them off on her fingers. "Murder, multiple counts, first-degree; acts of terrorism resulting in the deaths of U.S. nationals, multiple counts; rape; torture; kidnapping; obstruction of justice… Do you know what that means, Mr. Jackson?"

"You forgot 'interfering with a federal investigation.'" He replied blithely. "That one's gotta rank right at the top."

"It means – to put it in a way even you will understand – you're screwed."

"And by recounting all that, you're trying to 'help' me. Remind me never to give you a reason to _hinder_ me." He gave a mock shudder.

"**Will you stop being such a goddamn smartass?!**" Emily whispered as furiously as she could. She gripped the bars to the cell tightly. "Do you know legally, you could be declared a 'non-person' that could be sent anywhere in the world with no legal protections? And that's for terrorism. If they decide to go through with the other charges, you won't stay here; you'll go to Riker's. How long do you think you'll last in there?"

"Gee, your confidence in me is overwhelming," he said sarcastically.

Emily felt like banging her head against the bars. _Remind me again why I'm trying to help him? Oh yeah; because if I don't, his nosy neighbour will scream from the top of the Empire State Building that he and I screwed like rabbits last night._

"This isn't about confidence. This is about you in jail for crimes you didn't commit."

"Not according to the official FBI point of view, it isn't. According to them, I'm a terrorist, a serial killer and a sexual predator. So you're not telling me anything I haven't already heard. Unless, of course, do you know something they don't."

"Why did you say you got on a bus last night? Did you really think they weren't going to call you out on it?"

Scott looked at her like she was stupid. "Well, it's kinda hard to think on the spur of the moment when you have three cops who look like they all have poles shoved up their asses hounding you."

"So first you tell a blatant lie and then you make up the weakest, most unverifiable alibi possible?"

"Would you have preferred that I tell them the truth?"

Emily was silent. Was that _really_ what she wanted? In essence, yes – she wanted the _best_ _result_ of him telling the truth to happen – but she couldn't pick and choose what the outcome would actually be. It was only thinking about this that alerted her to something else – the description of the woman he said he was with last night was the exact _opposite_ of her.

"Why didn't you tell them the truth?" she asked.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I'm not the one in jail!" she snapped. Taking a deep breath, she went on. "You could have told them where you really were and it could have been corroborated. But you didn't. Why not?"

Scott stared at her for a moment. "Maybe if it was just my life on the line, I would've. But as it so happens, there was someone else involved – someone who never asked to be put in this position. I don't like being accused of being a murderer, but I also don't believe in ratting out someone before you've had a chance to talk to them. It's not just my life, it's theirs."

Emily felt her heart skip a beat. The words of Mary Wraith came back to her, telling her about the type of man willing to put himself on the line for the reputation of a woman. So often, it seemed, in these scenarios there was a fake between them. A man would tell a woman one thing and then, after she'd believed him, act a completely different way. Or a woman would manipulate a man into doing something for her and then throw him under the bus. Could that old woman have been right about Scott? Was he really doing this – sitting in a cell facing serious charges – because he didn't want to put her in a bad spot?

"So now you have to answer me," he was saying, drawing himself up so they locked eyes. "You had a chance to say what really happened, and since I'm here I'm guessing you didn't. Why not?"

She shifted her weight to one foot. "Because it's against regulations."

He raised an eyebrow. "Telling the truth is against regulations? Really?"

"No, of course _telling _the truth isn't against regulations," she said, rolling her eyes. "What the truth _is_, that's the problem."

"And what is the truth?"

"You know what it is."

"Humour me."

Emily gritted her teeth. He wanted her to say it, she realized. This whole time they'd been dancing around the issue and now here he was, demanding that she acknowledge out loud what she'd been trying to avoid.

"The _truth_," she said, treating each word as if it were a piece of gravel, "is that I made a mistake."

"By doing what?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"By sleeping with a major suspect in your investigation?"

_There it was. _Though the words were said normally, it sounded to her as if he had shouted for the whole world to hear. Emily cast a look down the corridor, almost like she was expecting someone to be there listening. "Like I said - a mistake."

Scott looked at her. It was impossible, he thought, to know what she could be thinking at any particular time. There had to be a backstory there that she guarded well. How else could she keep such an unreadable face most of the time? Woe betide any psychiatrist that tried to get inside her head; it might be enough to drive _them_ insane!

"Is that really what you think?"

"Yes, it is." _Say it._ "You were a mistake, an error in judgment." The words came quickly, the memories of them being thrown at her coming to the front of her mind. "You were a distraction, something to play with. If you weren't in this situation, I never would have seen you again."

_Push. Push him away. It's the only way_. She did her best to ignore the stabbing sensation in her heart as she put on her coldest voice. "You think last night meant anything? Well, it didn't. If you can't understand that, then you really are as stupid as they said you are."

Scott was silent for a moment, watching her intently. It was the same look as Mrs. Wraith had given her not too long ago and Emily suddenly realized that it was likely from her where he'd gotten it from. It drove her _insane_! Why couldn't they just yell and scream and swear at her? She could deal with that. This she had no idea how to handle.

Finally, he spoke. "Powerful stuff. You know what the truth for me is?"

"That you got a great lay last night?"

"No. Well, yes but it was more than that. It was with a woman who was worth every second of it. A woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. A woman who doesn't take any bullshit from anyone. A _woman_," he leaned forward, "who's honest, smart and, despite everything she says to the contrary, **cares enough to come for an unofficial visit with a man she told to never come see her again.**"

He straightened up. "_That_ is the reason I didn't tell the truth and possibly cost this woman a career that likely means a lot to her."

Emily stood in shock. Scott really _was_ in here for her? That was impossible – no man would ever do that for a woman, especially not one she'd only known for a couple of days. But then she turned it around and asked herself what she would have done had their places been switched. Could she really say she would deliberately and recklessly spill a secret that could ruin the career of a man she really cared for, even at the cost of her own freedom or life?

_A man she really cared for?_ Wait a minute. That would imply…

NO. **Absolutely NOT**.

Taking another deep breath to get her mind back on track, she said, "Look, I'm not going to promise anything. But I give you my word I'm going to do everything I can to prove your innocence and get you out of here."

He gave a smirk, one she recognized all too well on his face. "Now you sound like a defence attorney."

She repressed a groan. If there was one thing she hated more than reporters, it was defence lawyers. She understood they had a job to do, but when they're nitpicking details against a criminal who's **clearly** guilty – i.e. caught in the act – they could be a royal pain in the ass. "Yeah, well, whatever it takes."

A few seconds of silence passed before she said, "I should… get back. And try to work this all out."

Scott nodded. "Alright. And Agent Prentiss?"

She turned back to him. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

A bare hint of a smile flickered over her face for a second before she nodded and walked out.

It was so easy to thank someone for promising to do something, she thought. She could bet he wouldn't be thanking her if she failed and he ended up in prison.

As she entered the hallway, she stopped dead in her tracks. Hotch stood a few feet away, his eyes focused on her.

Managing to find her voice, she said, "What's up?"

He indicated behind him. "Follow me."

**TBC…**


	27. I-26

**Author's notes:**

**CODIS (Combined DNA Index System) describes the FBI's program of support for criminal justice DNA databases.**

**Edmond Dantès is the main character from the book **_**The Count of Monte-Cristo **_**(1844) by French author Alexandre Dumas.**

**ATTENTION EVERYONE! Some of you may have noticed that I have made some modifications to the chapter titles: all of them up to this point now have the roman numeral 'I' followed by the chapter. I've decided to divide the story into three parts, each of which deals with a certain theme that is emphasized throughout the particular part. Part I's theme is UNITY. Part II's theme will be CORRUPTION. Part III's theme will be STRENGTH.**

* * *

><p>As she followed Hotch down the hall, Emily could feel her heart pounding in her chest. The blood pounded in her ears with each beat, almost rivalling the sounds of their shoes against the floor. How much had he'd heard, she wondered. He knew she was in there talking to their prime suspect, no good denying that. Had she been mistaken about the cameras not recording audio? Had one of the officers tipped him off? Emily was beginning to think the worst as they entered the main room they had set up as a conference room where the entire team plus Brighton was assembled.<p>

"What's going on?" she asked, looking from face to face.

Hotch clicked a button on the conference phone in the middle of the table. "Alright, Garcia, Prentiss is here. Fill her in on what you've got."

"_Your wish is my desire, bossman. The Crime Scene Unit's report just came back on the double murder and, drum roll please, it looks like out UnSub wasn't as careful this time. Turns out CSU found some blood on the outside of the driver's window, the one he shot through – the UnSub, not the CSU, of course because that would be really creepy if they turned out to be one and the same-"_

"Garcia."

"_Right. The NYPD crime lab verified it didn't match either of the victims so that could only mean-"_

"It came from the UnSub." Emily finished, barely able to keep her voice under control.

"_Grrr, I hate when you steal my thunder, but yes, that's the most likely scenario."_

"Have they identified it yet?" Rossi asked.

"_Negative. It didn't fit anyone in their database, so they sent it to us. It's being run through CODIS as we speak."_

"Keep us up to date of anything that comes up," Hotch said before clicking off.

"So this is good. We can put a definite name to the UnSub," Emily prompted.

"If he's in the national database. If not, we won't know for sure unless a sample we take from a suspect matches," Morgan replied.

"But we can also eliminate anyone if they're not the UnSub."

"Three guess who she's referring to," Brighton muttered.

Emily stared at him rather hardly. Could the man be that determined to be right to the point of mocking the notion he could be wrong? "If it could clear his name, I think it's an important step. The longer we keep an innocent man behind bars, the less time we have of finding Kim Seo-yeon alive. I don't know about your agenda but that's not on mine today."

"No one's saying it is, but-"

"But from my point of view, it sure looks like it is," Emily interrupted. "Everything you've done has tilted the case _towards_ the guilt of Scott Jackson."

"If the evidence fits-"

"But it _doesn't_! As far as I can tell you haven't paid it the slightest attention!"

"Prentiss…" Hotch said warningly, but Emily ignored him.

"Did you check his arms when you brought him in? You must have seen them after the interrogation," she said to JJ. "If the UnSub reached into the car after killing Chris and Suzy and cut himself, enough to leave blood behind, there'd be evidence of that on his arms. But you all saw Jackson's; there wasn't a single cut or scratch on them deep enough to do that. That means, at least to me, he didn't reach into the car. Which, just by _my_ logic, means he wasn't there and didn't shoot them. And then there's the little matter of him not fitting the preliminary profile we set up _in the slightest_. Now I'm not sure about the rest of you, but that **doesn't** fit my definition of the UnSub we're looking for."

There was complete silence in the room for several moments.

JJ stepped forward. "Uh, Emily, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Why?"

"Just bear with me," the blonde agent said with all smiles. "Two minutes, that's all."

Emily paused. She had an idea of what JJ was going to say to her and why she didn't want to say it in front of all the others. That was fine with her; the last thing she wanted was to be reamed out with an audience watching. And the fact that JJ was doing it and not Hotch meant the blonde had sensed trouble and wanted to step in before things got out of hand.

Turning around and walking out of the room, she didn't see the glance JJ through Hotch or the subtle nod the prosecutor gave in turn.

"Right in here." JJ directed the older woman to an empty conference room adjacent to the occupied one. Closing the door, she spun around with a no-nonsense look on her face that resembled the one she'd worn during the interrogation. "What's going on?"

Emily swallowed, thankful she wasn't a man. If she had an Adam's apple, she was sure it would have bulged out of her throat like the heart of a cartoon character. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't give me that. You know exactly what I mean. You've been acting strangely ever since this morning. I've seen it, Emily; Hotch has seen it; _everyone's_ seen it. What's up with you?"

"I just didn't sleep very well."

"This morning you said you slept fine!"

"I meant _after_ I stopped tossing and turning and waking up. Jesus, JJ," Emily snapped, which was more a cover to hide her anger at having forgotten. "You sound like you're still in interrogation!"

JJ crossed her arms. "Maybe I am."

Emily's mouth opened and closed several times. "Oh, well thank you very much!" she finally said. "It's nice to know you're now looking at me the same way you looked at a man you accused of being a rapist and serial killer!"

JJ sighed. "Look, Emily, we're just following what we have. The circumstantial evidence pointed very strongly towards him being guilty and for all we know, he could still very well be."

"And what about the profile? When you were in there, did you get the sense that you were sitting across from someone who fit the preliminary profile of the man who did these things?"

"In as far as the double murder, yes."

"And the others? Did he strike you as someone who'd saw off a man's genitals or rip out a woman's tongue?" Her words came fast and hard. "How about someone who'd set out to kill as many people as possible with a bomb?"

"We're trying to find a missing woman, Emily," JJ said coolly. "If there's a chance he knows where she is, we can't take a risk by avoiding it. I thought you were always for never missing an opportunity to close a case. How can you be certain he's not trying to play us by acting confused and innocent?"

"Because of who he is!" Emily threw out. "He's an arrogant, cocky guy who loves sarcasm and smartass remarks. He doesn't have the guts to be involved in this. Torturing and killing people the way this UnSub does takes sadism and a twisted kind of patience. You saw him; he almost had a freaking heart attack when he saw the crime scene photos. No one's that good an actor."

"Psychopaths are."

"Oh, so now he's a psychopath too?"

"You can say for certain he isn't? As far as I know – as far as anyone knows – you met him once and spoke to him only briefly before today. Not even you're that good at forming a perfect profile of someone after that." JJ raised her eyebrow. "Or were you trying to get a better one of him in the cells?"

Emily's face betrayed nothing. "Actually, I was trying to get him to remember anything from last night. He was in the area, okay, that's undisputable, so maybe he saw something or heard something that could help us."

"And?" JJ prompted.

"And if there was anything, I'm pretty sure I would have brought it up back there."

"Instead of trying to destroy all friendly relations between the FBI and the NYPD?"

Emily sighed loudly. "Dammit JJ, you're starting to sound like Hotch."

JJ's face turned from inquiring to concerned. "Look…Emily, you don't like sharing your private concerns, I get that. But you're honestly starting to worry me. Discarding your weapon carelessly near your hotel room door? Lashing out at a briefing session? That's not you. The Emily Prentiss I know sucks things up, locks them away and deals with them hoping no one else will even find out about them. But if something's bothering you that bad, maybe we can help. That's what a team does. We have each other's backs." Her eyes met with the older woman's. "You of all people should know that."

Emily bit her lip, wondering the best way she could get out of this situation. Though she couldn't know it, JJ's words – no matter how well intentioned – were actually making the dilemma even worse. Emily knew she was still on thin ice in the agency and had been ever since her return. Despite everyone's best efforts, there was, and likely always would be, an asterisk next to her name. Any hint of indiscretion, anything that could put her, the team or the agency in a bad spot was likely to blow back not only on her, but the entire BAU. Even if she wanted to tell JJ what was on her mind, she couldn't allow them to endure the consequences of her decision. Better to suffer in silence, she decided, and ride it out, instead of putting a giant spotlight on the rest of her friends for years to come.

"Well, then I guess that's why they're called personal reasons," she replied.

JJ exhaled audibly. Clearly that was not the answer she'd be hoping for. But she just gave a nod. "Okay. But if you want to make them less personal-"

"I'll know exactly where to go." Emily smiled and shook her head to make it more believable. "Gotcha."

The door opened and Reid stuck his head in. "You're gonna want to hear this."

The two women exchanged glances before following him back to the first conference room. "Go ahead, Garcia."

"_DNA results just came in on the blood on the window and we have match, but it's not what you're expecting. In fact, it's really weird."_

"Who is it?" Hotch asked.

"_Evelyn Virginia Barrymore."_

The room was filled with a lot of confused faces. "Wait, it's a woman?" JJ questioned.

"_Correct, my fellow blonde. Definitely not my first choice for the UnSub and definitely without the proper equipment for the sexual assault on Bridget. And before you ask, __**yes**__, I made double sure there was no mistake."_

"Could it be a pair? We theorized the bombers were working as part of a group. Maybe this murder spree is part of one too," Morgan suggested.

"_That would be a good theory, except for one simple problem: Evelyn Barrymore's dead."_

"Since when?" Rossi asked.

"_Since last September. And in case you get any inclination about fake deaths, you should know she died in the worst possible place to fake your death unless you're Edmond Dantès. That would be, of course, prison. And… oh wow. It appears she died on death row in North Carolina."_

"She was executed?" Emily demanded.

"_No, her execution date had yet to be set. She took her own life."_

"What happened?"

"_It's a really tragic story. I'll give you the rundown and send you the complete case file."_

"Send it to me. I'll put it up on screen." Reid fiddled with his phone when it beeped a moment later and brought it up on the white board. The photo that accompanied it was one of a weary brunette with vivid purple eyes. Had it not clearly been a mug shot and had she been smiling, no one would have taken her for a former death row inmate.

"_So, as I said,"_ Garcia began. _"It's a tragic story…"_

**TBC...**


	28. I-27

**Author's notes:**

**WARNING: Racist and offensive language in this chapter.**

**The case in this chapter is partially based on the **_**Law and Order: Special Victims Unit**_** episode "Bang."**

**As of August 2013, there were only two women on North Carolina's death row – Carlette Parker and Blanche T. Moore.**

**I apologize for the delay. New jobs tend to take up a lot of time.**

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><p>Tragic seemed to be an understatement. A BIG understatement. As their tech expert regaled the most important facts, the agents all studied the case file, bit by bit.<p>

Evelyn Barrymore – whom everyone called Eve - seemed to have, by all accounts, been dealt just about the worst hand a person could be dealt in life. Born to an alcoholic shopkeeper and an apparent tyrant of a mother in Dobson, North Carolina in 1980, her opportunities were considered slim and far between. She was fairly unremarkable student in school; teachers described her as a quiet and shy girl who didn't make friends easily and more or less drifted through life. In eighth grade, she received a week long suspension for being caught drinking on school property and afterwards became even more withdrawn, cutting classes frequently and barely moving forward. Her behaviour was subsequently put down to the death of her father earlier in the year.

At age sixteen, Eve became pregnant and dropped out of school. By nineteen, she'd had two children by different men, briefly marrying the second one before divorcing him less than a year later. Her kids were seized when she was twenty-one by the state amid allegations of drug use; she admitted that she had developed a serious cocaine addiction, even though she swore she never did drugs around her children. Over the next three years, Eve was arrested numerous times for drug possession and prostitution, which helped fuel her coke habit. In late 2004, she was charged with assaulting a man with a switchblade during a proposition; Eve claimed she defended herself after he tried to force her into his pickup. The charges were dropped after the man declined to appear in court.

On the surface, it would seem like that was the wake-up call Eve needed. She sought help for her drug addiction, gave up prostitution and seemed genuinely interested in repairing her relationship with her kids. She also became very active in Raleigh's Christian community, working for a church and becoming involved in trying to help women on the street to prevent them from making the same mistakes she did. It was through the church that she met a man who seemed to bring a light from God into her life; Darren Makinson, a thirty-four year old international banker originally from Alabama whom locals described as charming, personable and always immaculately dressed in designer suits and dark-rimmed glasses. Darren, who was African-American, told members of the church that he had recently split up with his wife and he was looking for a "spiritual reawakening" to balance his working life, which required a lot of travel. Eve immediately volunteered to help him, and the two began to meet every day before and after church at first to discuss spirituality, then just to talk. Community members noticed that Eve seemed much more outgoing and relaxed after meeting him, a clear sign to many of a genuine attraction. When Darren asked her to dinner one night, she initially hesitated; her history of bad relationships and the fact she had grown up in a closed community and household stirred up old fears. But his persistence and charm won and soon the two were a solid item. The situation couldn't have seemed better for her.

On the morning of March 18th, 2005, police were called to an apartment complex on the southeast edge of the city. Residents had complained of hearing loud noises the previous night and early in the morning, and security had received no response to repeated knocks at the door. When officers entered the apartment, they discovered a gruesome sight – the body of a black male lying on the floor of the bedroom in a pool of his own blood. He'd suffered multiple stab wounds to his back and neck, including one single slice across his throat that had severed his jugular and caused him to bleed out. But the most disturbing aspect was that fact that the man had been castrated, his testicles later discovered in the garbage bin outside the complex. There was evidence a cleanup attempt had been made, albeit a very poor one.

Officers positively identified the man as Darren Makinson and the apartment as belonging to his girlfriend, Eve Barrymore, who had failed to report in for work that morning. The initial theory suggested Darren had been killed by an intruder who'd then kidnapped Eve and was now on the run with her as a hostage. The evidence, however, just didn't fit that theory; no kidnapper would take the time to try to clean up a crime scene and the level of violence directed at the victim suggested a deep personal rage on the part of the killer. The most damning evidence came when police discovered a bloody knife about ten blocks from the crime scene on the side of the road; forensics positively identified the blood as Darren's and only one set of fingerprints on the weapon – Eve's.

Raleigh police immediately put out an all-points bulletin, as the young woman was now considered the prime suspect in Darren's murder. Her flight from justice didn't last long; she was identified and arrested two days later while driving Darren's car near the South Carolina border. Upon returning to Raleigh and meeting detectives, Eve initially denied having done anything wrong, but after being confronted with the evidence she confessed to the murder.

Her confession was lengthy, graphic and disturbing. According to her, on the evening of March 17th, she and Darren had met at her apartment, something they had done before but just to discuss church business. Late in the evening, they both had a glass of wine and Darren told her he loved her and wanted to be with her. Though they'd been dating for a couple of months, they'd never taken that next step. Eve was reluctant to become intimate with a man again, but eventually decided she trusted him enough and agreed. He promised he'd be gentle and wear a condom, which put her mind at ease.

The detectives' notes for the next part of the interrogation were chilling, not just for the graphic detail Eve gave but also the apparent calm, matter of fact way in which she delivered them - as if she was recounting a church meeting instead of a murder.

According to her, while Darren kept his word and was a complete gentleman during the act, immediately afterwards he became cool and distant and quickly made as if he was getting ready to leave. As Eve got out of the bed to ask him what was up, she noticed something strange with the condom he abruptly took off and tossed in the trash; at the very tip was a tiny hole, barely noticeable unless you were looking carefully. Eve immediately became concerned – she wasn't on birth control and had no plans to have another child with someone she hadn't known for too long. When she told Darren about the broken condom, he seemed completely unconcerned even after she explained she wasn't on the Pill. It was then that she noticed something else; the wrapper on the floor also seemed damaged - _as though someone had poked a tiny hole through the centre where the tip of the condom was supposed to be_.

Confused and upset, Eve practically threw the damaged goods in her lover's face and demanded an explanation. It was then, as she told it, that his personality completely changed. He burst out laughing right in her face and told her she had just been "niggerized." As a shocked Eve listened, Darren told her that he'd never loved her and just saw her as a "nice piece of meat." She described how he called her a slut and a whore and how she'd been naïve to think she was anything more than one in a million. But the biggest shock came at the end when she told detectives how he smiled as he described how he'd purposely sabotaged the condom so that her "white ass was now another conduit for his legacy."

Eve said she didn't know how the knife got into her hand, but she did remember swinging with it and remembered him falling to the ground with blood splashing everywhere, including on herself. And she also remembered castrating him. According to her, she wanted to remove his weapons – his words indicated that she wasn't the first one to whom he'd done this – even though she was sure he was already dead. She ended the interrogation by claiming her actions were justified as she'd saved more women from being damaged by him.

The case, predictably, caused a media storm throughout the country. Despite the overwhelming evidence and the threat of the death penalty if she lost, Eve went against her lawyer's advice and opted for a trial. She argued she should be given the chance to prove her actions were justified, saying that the jury members, especially those who were female, would understand. She would turn out to be very wrong.

The prosecution's case hinged on two areas: one was the physical evidence which clearly suggested that Eve and only Eve could have murdered Darren Makinson. The other was the character of the accused. The prosecutor let no opportunity slip by to remind the jury of Eve's background and criminal history. He argued she was a pathological liar who frequently twisted the truth in order to put herself in a better light and described the attack on Darren as "brutal, horrific," adding that the castration was the act of a "cold-blooded, man-hating sociopath with zero remorse or empathy." Witnesses from her apartment building were called, including a neighbour who testified he'd heard Eve yell and call someone a "fucking dirty nigger" at around the time of the killing. The prosecutor maintained that the principal motivation for the killing was that Darren was unwilling to commit to a long-term relationship, which caused Eve – whom he described as "needy and paranoid" – to snap and direct her rage at the man she believed betrayed her. The broken condom and damaged wrapper, he claimed, were "incidental and irrelevant."

Unsurprisingly, Eve's defence lawyer was left with little to work with. His case essentially boiled down to her interrogation where he argued that she'd been betrayed and taken advantage of by a "cunning predator." He emphasized to the jury her tragic background, saying how her alcoholic father had died in a car crash when she was young and how she had been raised in a "house of fear" by her tyrannical and religiously fanatic mother. Josephine Barrymore, the court heard, had frequently berated her husband and repeatedly told her young daughter than all men were predators and rapists who sought only to take advantage of pure, godly women. This fear, Eve's lawyer argued, was brought back by Darren's betrayal and she snapped.

The trial itself was marred in controversy. For one thing, it was held fairly close to Raleigh and the scene of the crime. The defence's motion to move the trial to a more neutral part of the state was dismissed offhand. Several local and national newspapers ran editorials that were overwhelmingly in favour of 'swift justice' before the trial had even begun. But the most damning evidence that might have changed the outcome was a background investigation the defence did on the victim.

Darren Makinson, it turned out, was by no means an innocent man. While the prosecution portrayed Eve as racist and sociopathic, it seemed her victim actually was both of those. A childhood friend told investigators how Darren had the same attitude towards white people as Nazis had towards Jews. At age fifteen, he and a cousin were arrested for allegedly overpowering and raping a white female police officer just outside Mobile, but were released for lack of evidence. The same friend said how Darren often bragged he was going to "wipe out the white race – one pale-skinned bitch at a time."

While there was no evidence that Makinson had ever killed anyone, what he had done was almost worse. His M.O. was simple; he would settle in a new town or city, establish himself using a carefully constructed cover story and seek out a potential target – always a Caucasian woman between age twenty and forty and often one who was in some way vulnerable or easy to charm. He would learn about their likes, dislikes, strengths and weaknesses and play on those, using them, taking as much time as necessary to establish a certain level of trust with his target. Once that target had been reached with a woman he would express his desire to become intimate with her, emphasizing that he preferred to use condoms instead of putting the burden on her to use birth control, so as to keep the power firmly in his court. After the woman consented and after making sure she was not using her own form of birth control, he would secretly sabotage the condom by poking a tiny hole through the package – and the tip. After having sex with the woman, he would leave to establish himself in another town and begin seeking out another victim.

There were plenty of victims, and not just the women he left betrayed. While some of the ones investigators could track down had had abortions once they found out what had happened most didn't for religious or personal reasons. As far as anyone could tell, at last count Makinson had at least thirty-eight children, all by different women, across the country. Most of them were in single parent households, often of the working or lower middle class, reliant on government assistance or minimum wage jobs to get by. In one tragic case, a young college student in South Dakota who'd dated him briefly threw herself off the roof of her dormitory. Investigators theorized that she chose to take her own life rather than admit to her very traditional family that she'd gotten pregnant out of wedlock.

While it was never proven, authorities suspected Makinson's trail of victims stretched beyond American soil. As someone who travelled frequently – the only part of his stories that seemed to be truthful – he'd made frequent trips abroad, including to Canada, England, Western Europe and Australia. Like most sexual predators, Makinson had had no reason to stop until he was stopped - in this case at the cost of his life instead of just his freedom. Investigators were convinced that in many, perhaps all of these countries were women who he'd lied to and taken advantage of, leaving a trail of fatherless children behind him.

It was compelling evidence and might have made the jury a little more sympathetic to Eve, but for whatever reason the judge ruled it inadmissible, saying it was irrelevant. His position, essentially, was that murder couldn't ever be justified and that Makinson, despite being a scumbag and sexual predator, didn't deserve to have his throat slit and his testicles sawed off. The character profile of the victim, a key piece of Eve's defence, was now gone.

With so little to go on, and with her lawyer unwilling to put his client on the stand, the outcome was no surprise to anyone. After a trial that lasted two weeks, it took just forty-five minutes for the jury to pronounce Eve guilty of murder. The prosecutor announced that, in an increasingly rare move in the state, he would seek the death penalty, arguing that her crime was "cold, calculated and without a shred of remorse."

Three weeks after her conviction, Eve was sentenced to death by lethal injection.

One additional blow to the young woman who'd been used and abused most of her life: a few weeks after her arrest Eve discovered she was pregnant – Darren Makinson's final act of power over her. She gave birth to a baby boy named Jason just before the trial started, who was immediately seized and given up for adoption. The amount of time Eve was able to hold her new son in her arms was approximately one minute.

From the time of her conviction and imprisonment at the North Carolina Correctional Institute for Women in Raleigh until the time of her death, Eve fought to get her sentence overturned. She filed appeal after appeal, trying in vain to get off death row; forbidden from seeing any of her children and being one of only three women sentenced to death in the state took a toll on her physical and mental health. Each and every time, the answer was the same – her execution would remain intact.

Finally, in September 2011, her final appeal was rejected. It was official; the state of North Carolina would take her life for taking another's.

On September 17th, two days after being informed that her death sentence would be carried out, a guard found Eve unresponsive in her bed. Despite efforts to revive her, she was pronounced dead at 4:17 a.m. The cause of death was later revealed to be an overdose of anti-depressants, which had been prescribed to her after she was hospitalized for cutting her wrists with a crudely-made razor. It would appear that she had been secretly hoarding them for some time until she had a dose that she was sure would prove fatal. Investigators theorized that Eve decided to take her life, and re-establish some control in it, rather than have someone else decide the day and time she would die.

While her death caused some waves in the media for a short time, Evelyn Barrymore was quickly forgotten. Her mother Josephine, who had never visited her before, during or after the trial, refused to have anything to do with her. Josephine herself would die of pneumonia just a few months later.

With no one to claim her, Eve's body was buried at a private location. It was a familiar ending for a woman who'd been on her own most of her life. Her gravestone bore no name but a message she'd left behind just before she died:

_Sometimes it's Hell getting to Heaven._

**TBC…**


	29. I-28

**Author's notes: **

**- When I initially wrote the last chapter, I was under the impression that identical twins with the same DNA could be of different genders. In fact, I'm only learning now that's not possible. So I've had to do a bit of on-the-go story changing and change identical twins into fraternal twins (who share up to 50% of genetics.) My mistake for not doing my research beforehand!**

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><p>"Jesus," Morgan murmured.<p>

"_I know. I should have warned you it was a tearjerker."_ The emotion was evident in Garcia's voice. _"It's just lucky I was prepared this time round."_ They heard her blowing her nose, not loudly but quite sharply.

"That kind of background for this UnSub would make perfect sense," Rossi declared. He'd been processing all the information while sorting through the emotional aspects of the case. "Repressed feelings created in a closed home growing up is a breeding ground for extreme resentment and rage."

"But that's just a single characteristic. It doesn't change the fact Evelyn Barrymore is dead," JJ pointed out. "And even if she wasn't, the evidence would indicate a male perpetrator since the ME clearly stated that Bridget Silver was raped, right?" Morgan nodded.

"Garcia, was Eve an only child?" Emily asked.

"_Let me double-check that for you right now."_ The sound of computer keys clattering at what seemed like a thousand words a minute came through the speaker. _"Here we are… oh wow."_

"What is it?" Hotch said.

"_Not only was she not an only child, she had a brother that was born on the exact same day at the exact same time which means -"_

"Same DNA." Emily let out a deep breath and straightened up. She felt as if the giant knot of nerves in her body was starting to loosen - ever so slowly. "They're identical twins."

"Actually fraternal twins. Identical twins are of the same gender," Reid corrected. "It's a common misconception that all twins would share the same DNA, but fraternal twins can share up to only fifty percent of the genetic code."

"Which would explain why nothing came up on the standard tests. They didn't go deep enough," Rossi finished.

"What was the brother's name, Garcia?" Morgan called out.

"_Just bringing that up right now… Got it! Paul Edward Barrymore. Moved to New York in January, no employment records – looks like he's living off government assistance and some small savings from his mother."_

"January. That was three months after his mother died," Emily remarked.

"Had to have been the trigger," Morgan said. "Sister takes her own life and then his mother dies just a few months later; it had to drive him over the edge. With the type of personality his mother is said to have had, I wouldn't be surprised if she helped fuel his rage."

"_I'm sending you his address now."_ Garcia quickly sent the data to each of the agents' phones. Brighton looked over at Rossi's. "Brooklyn," the detective murmured.

"You know the neighbourhood?" Hotch asked.

Brighton did – only too well. He nodded. "Had a double homicide a few blocks away last year. Two men killed execution style. Thought it was just typical gang violence until we found out one of the victims worked with the local youth shelter. Turns out the other victim had recently had an argument with his neighbour over who owed who money over a TV. Neighbour came in with a gun to settle the score and the other guy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn't find the bodies until three days after they died. Neighbours on the floor were all in their apartments at the time, but of course, when we asked, they all said they didn't see or hear anything."

"A neighbourhood where when things turn ugly, residents are unwilling to call in the police," JJ surmised. "The ideal place for someone to keep someone without fear of being caught."

"_And here's one more thing to add to the creepiness scale – Barrymore lives in the basement apartment,"_ Garcia pointed out. _"You know… basements and serial killers kinda go hand in hand."_

"So he's our UnSub!" Emily could barely contain the excitement in her voice. It was a great struggle to stop herself from sounding too excited.

"He's almost certainly at least one of them. Reid and Prentiss are with me, JJ and Morgan are with Rossi." Hotch's eyes surveyed the men and women in front of him. "Let's go."

Angie was crying again.

Not from pain or fear – she was either beyond those or had forced them from her mind. No, her tears were of _relief_.

Relief because she knew she was close to escape.

* * *

><p>Angie had decided a long time ago that she was not going to be the object of this sick monster's twisted desires. She didn't know what he had planned for her next and, quite frankly, she no longer cared. She had no desire to become another one of his victims; whoever they were – however many there were – she couldn't allow herself to become one of them.<p>

She was going to escape - one way or another.

As she twisted her wrists in the increasingly loose chains, she knew she was just a few moments away from freedom. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to get it, but she was going to get it.

_Twist and turn._

Her preferred way of escape – escape back to the free world where the people around you didn't beat you and lock you up like an animal – was not going to be easy. Between her and it lay a locked door, solid concrete walls and a crazy psycho intent on causing her pain. She had no idea how she was going to get past them all, but she damn well was going to give it her best shot.

_Twist and turn. Twist and turn._

_Relax. _

_Take ten seconds. _

_Breath. _

_Start again._

The other way of escape… well, she didn't want to think about that. She wasn't ready to go there yet. Not ready to accept that reality.

But… if it came down to it, well, she wasn't going to allow this bastard the pleasure of knowing that she went down quietly.

_Twist and turn. Twist and turn. Twist and turn._

Angie didn't know how long she had left to live. The next time he came in, he might decide to simply get rid of her. Or he might decide that he wanted to have some more 'fun' with her beforehand. Either way, she wasn't going to play by his rules anymore. She was going to retake control of her life.

The cuffs jingled. Angie felt herself drop a fraction of an inch, pause for a second, then drop down as her hands finally slipped through the metal.

Her landing wasn't as smooth as she'd anticipated. Normally landing from just her toes onto the full weight of her feet would've been the easiest thing in the world. But then again, normally she hadn't been beaten like a dog on the legs until she could no longer feel them. As her weight came down on her souls, her legs gave out, causing her to stumble and then crumple on the cold floor.

Angie froze. Her landing had caused a notable thud and now feared that it may have given her away. She didn't move, hardly dared to breathe as she listened for any signs that might indicate her kidnapper's return.

There was nothing – nothing but a deafening silence.

Allowing herself to release a pent-up breath, Angie took a moment to get her heart rate down before taking in her surroundings.

Being hung up like a cow in a butcher shop tended to make a person see things in a different light. Imprisoned in her chains, she hadn't really bothered to try to examine the room. But now, free and with her eyes now adjusted to the low light, she saw what she had been overlooking.

The room was actually bigger than she had thought. What she had thought was just a dark wall on the far side was actually a whole other section to the room, about half as large as the rest of it. A large pipe ran horizontally along the ceiling and down the side of the wall. The walls were concrete like the others, but Angie could see, glinting in the darkness, the glimmer of metal in the centre portion near the bottom. Chains and manacles of various sizes had been screwed into the concrete, almost like for holding dogs – except some of them were way too high up on the wall to hold a dog. A metal table off to the side stood empty except for what appeared to be a toolbox on top; Angie didn't want to know what was in that. On the other hand, there was no mistaking what were the dark stains in the middle of the floor in that section – pools of dried blood.

Angie felt as if she might vomit. The mere thought of what this psycho had done to other people just a few yards away from where she was made her sick to her stomach. She felt the bile rise up in her throat and had to fight the urge to retch.

_Ignore it,_ she told herself. _Find a way out._

Taking another couple of deep breaths, she looked around for any possible ways of escape. Wherever he'd taken her, she realized, it was clear he didn't count on her getting away. No windows, no vents. Just one door. And a crazy killer on the other side of it.

_Crazy…_

A person would have to be crazy to try to leave the same way he came in.

Even if that was the only way out of here.

Unless a person was desperate. _Really_ desperate.

Desperate enough to risk everything for a chance of freedom – to escape from certain death.

Especially if she hadn't heard the door lock the last time he left…

Slowly, carefully, Angie pushed herself up using her hands. She straightened up, her legs wobbling under the pressure of her bruised and punished muscles. She took a moment to just stand and get her balance back before taking her first cautious step towards the door.

The pain came soaring through her limb like a freight train, causing her to collapse in agony to one knee. It was so intense it felt like molten lava was being pumped throughout her leg. The blood flow in her lower body had been disrupted after being hung up for so long and now her body was trying to make up for lost time by flooding her bruised legs with fresh blood. The nerves in that area, however, had not yet adjusted to the change and were all reacting at once to the new stimuli.

Angie bit her tongue to keep herself from crying out loud. She knew that if she attracted her kidnapper's attention, she'd likely be dead much quicker than whenever he was planning. She bent her head to try to minimize the pain until it faded and saw for the first time how much damage had been done to her wrists; the flesh was raw, red and bloody and almost certainly on the verge of infection. She felt no pain here and hoped she hadn't damaged the nerves beyond repair. Still, she couldn't worry about that now.

Using all her strength and willpower, Angie forced herself to stand and took another shaky step towards the door. The pain wasn't as big a shock to her this time but it still hurt like hell. She ignored it and kept walking, step by step, until finally she reached the steps leading up the door. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated and used the wall for balance as she lifted one foot onto the bottom step, then the other. She repeated this action for every subsequent step and, fortunately, was able to reach the door in less than a minute.

Angie paused for a moment, bracing herself. _Please don't let it be locked._ She wasn't sure what would be worse – finding the door locked after her struggle to reach it or finding it unlocked and the man on the other side waiting for her.

_Only one way to find out_. Taking another deep breath, she took hold of the knob and turned.

* * *

><p>"I've got some more info on Paul Barrymore," JJ said into her cell phone. She balanced her tablet in her other hand as Morgan steadily increased their speed to keep up with the other van right beside them. "In ninth grade, he was suspended for sneaking into the girls' locker room to spy on them while they changed. His counsellor reported that he considered such behaviour normal and something every man did, even with his closest relatives."<p>

"Sounds like he was just getting his start," Hotch replied as he gripped the steering wheel of his own van.

"It goes deeper than that. That kind of attitude suggests this kind of behaviour was planted in him at a young age. A child doesn't usually develop those behaviours unless they were encouraged by an authority figure," Reid pointed out.

Morgan added, "Like his mother."

"We theorized this UnSub had a sexual relationship with an older female such as a mother," Rossi said from the back of their van. "That might explain how he developed such unhealthy views of women."

"So his mother plays both sides of the fence," Emily said from beside Hotch. She held the phone while the former prosecutor cranked up the speed past a line of cars stopped at a red light. "Tells her children that all members of the opposite sex are evil and at least in the son's case encourages him to kill them."

"Using religion as justification," Rossi replied grimly.

"It's possible she also may have planned to try to mould Eve into doing the same to men. She viewed her husband as a drunk and a failure, so why not try to get her daughter to act as an instrument of God to punish them all?" JJ continued. "Eve's leaving prevented that, so she focused her efforts on her son. Abused him, corrupted him, twisted his views of sex and women and made sure he knew what she wanted him to do."

"But how does a freak like this get mixed up with an extremist group who bombs buildings?" Brighton asked from beside Reid. "That's what I don't get." In fact, there was a _lot_ the detective didn't get; he was still trying to grasp the fact that a man he had in custody was almost certainly innocent of the crimes of which he was accused.

"We'll find out once we interrogate him." Hotch shifted gears and increased their speed. "And he'd better have the answers."

* * *

><p><em>The door opened.<em>

Angie could hardly breathe as the entrance to her prison swung slowly open. Light from the hallway caused her to squint; so long had it been that she had been in anything other than total darkness. But one thing was for certain – there was no one waiting for her in the hall.

She could have kissed the ground right there and then, but she didn't want to risk getting on her knees; she didn't trust that she'd be able to get up quickly again. So she stepped forward into the light.

The hallway honestly wasn't that much better than the room she'd been imprisoned in. There was only one light in all the ceiling, a single bulb hanging on a chain which flickered and dimmed uncertainly. The walls were also concrete here, but had been painted a horrible lime green colour. Chunks of the wall were cracked and crumbling on the floor, giving the impression of one of those old hotels in the horror movies where the killer murdered the guests one by one. A strong odour of cleaning fluid permeated the area. It was so strong Angie almost had to hold her breath to stop herself from coughing. Regardless of whatever clean-up job had been attempted, the floor was covered in dirt and grime. Something that looked suspiciously like a cockroach scurried along the far end of the wall and disappeared into a paper-thin crack.

Shuddering and giving her head a shake, Angie tried to focus on the task of escape. There several doors along the opposite side and one at the far end of the hall. She had no idea which one led to the outside but then again it wasn't like the kidnapper was going to hang a sign up that said **ALL ESCAPING VICTIMS THIS WAY PLEASE** next to it. In her experience though, when a door was at either end of a hallway, it usually meant it led to somewhere new; in this case, hopefully to freedom.

As quickly and quietly as she could, Angie made her way down the hall. The light in the ceiling swayed as she moved past, casting shadows on the wall. She thought she could feel a breeze tingle the back of her neck. Then again, maybe it was the fear trying to creep up on her.

The door at the end of the hall was unique; while all the other were grey and made of a rather thin type of material, this one was dark, wooden and thick. The handle was rusted, though, indicating that perhaps it hadn't been attended to in some time and was easy to open. Angie took hold of the knob, turned and pushed.

Nothing.

She tried again. Still nothing.

She tried pulling the door towards her and it moved maybe half an inch before catching.

"No," Angie murmured. "No, come on."

She pushed back against the door and then pulled again. The door shifted ever so slightly and stuck exactly where it was. She tried again. And again. Each time produced the same result. Angie looked at the door trying to find any reason for the block; through the crack between the door and the wall, she could see the shadows of at least three heavy bolts locking it tight.

"Shit!" Angie swore, twisting the knob frantically. _This wasn't happening. Not now. Not right goddamn now!_ Forgetting about being quiet, she began pulling and yanking at different parts of the door, trying to find some kind of weakness.

"Going somewhere?"

She spun around and froze, the fear seizing control of her body.

The man stood just a few feet away. On the index finger of his right hand balanced a key ring with several keys on it. He shook them several times before sliding them into his pocket. A mean expression crossed his face as he took a step towards her.

* * *

><p>Morgan's van screeched to a halt in front of the red-bricked apartment building about half a second behind Hotch. The three occupants piled out to join their teammates who were already out and drawing their weapons.<p>

"Which number is it?" Hotch asked to no one in particular.

"6B," Reid responded as he flicked the safety off his Glock. "It's the basement apartment on the north end."

The team quickly made their way around the corner and found the door to the apartment in question. The peeling wood and overgrown weeds surrounding it gave it a rundown, un-kept look, somewhere most decent people would go out of their way to avoid. It gave more than one of them an uneasy feeling to think that a young woman was being held there.

Hotch gave a look around as if to say 'ready?' When no one objected, he nodded to Morgan.

The former Chicago PD officer delivered a swift kick to the door and knocked it open.

* * *

><p>Angie could barely hear anything else over the noise of her heart pounding in her ears.<p>

"I figured you were lyin' about turning to God. Made me wonder what else you were lyin' about." His voice was scarily calm as he took slow steps towards her. "Guess all that stuff about not trying to escape was one big lie too."

She felt herself begin to tremble uncontrollably. "Please…" Her plea little more than a whisper.

"Hardly surprising. All women lie. It's what they do. Whores and sluts and witches – all of 'em. Well," his eyes hardened even more. "There's a price to be paid for that." He reached out for her.

At that moment, Angie's fight or flight response took over. In the split second before he grabbed hold of her arm, she noticed that the door closest to her behind him was partway open, likely how he got into the hall. As he took hold of her, Angie morphed back into her days on the soccer field and let loose with a kick that hit him in the crotch. Caught completely off guard, he shouted and doubled over in pain; as soon as he let her go she ran past him through the door and found herself in another hallway.

This one didn't seem quite as dirty as the other one but was much darker. There were no windows and barely enough light coming from a tiny bulb at the opposite end that she could barely see where she was going. Angie ignored that fact and ran as fast as she could to the opposite end of the hall, her feet slapping against the concrete.

She all but slammed into the door at the other end. Choking back sobs and gasps she grabbed hold of the handle and pulled hard.

Locked.

"_No…_" She barely recognized the high-pitched terror in her voice. She threw a panicked look behind her, but couldn't see anything. Yet she could hear sounds just out of her sight, ones that indicated her captor was coming for her.

"HELP ME!" Angie whirled around and pounded on the door with hands and fists. "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!" She didn't care who or what was on the other side. All she knew was that if she didn't get out right now, she was dead.

She rattled the handle frantically. "HELP! **SOMEONE PLEASE!**"

As Angie twisted and turned, there was a sharp _crack_ as the handle snapped off in her hand. She stared down at it in horror. "No. _Please God…_"

An arm wrapped around her throat and yanked her against a body. She choked and gasped for air, letting the handle fall to the floor. The sharp points of an unshaven face scratched against her skin.

"Bad move," the man growled in her ear.

* * *

><p>Guns drawn, the agents poured into the apartment and were almost immediately overwhelmed by the state of squalor of the place. Trash lay everywhere, food containers and dirty dishes were sprawled over the floor. The couch in the living room area was almost unrecognizable under the mountain of garbage that covered it. A chair that might once have been made of green fabric was now brown and torn. The bedroom, which contained just a mattress on the floor and a few piles of clothes nearby, was not much better. Black garbage bags were placed over the windows, blocking out the sunlight. A heavy odour of stale air and garbage hung in the air.<p>

"Clear!" Morgan shouted from the kitchen.

"Clear!" JJ responded from the living room.

"He's not here," Hotch responded, exiting the bedroom. "No sign of Kim Seo-yeon?"

"Not a trace." Brighton appeared beside Rossi from the bathroom. "He must have fled and taken her with him."

"But where else could he go? His place is in the radius of all the dump sites and he doesn't have anywhere else he could feel safe," Reid argued, holstering his weapon.

Morgan shrugged. "Maybe we missed something."

"Or maybe we're just not looking hard enough," Emily argued.

"I'll see if there's anywhere else he might have gone to refuge. Maybe there's a pattern we overlooked somewhere."

Morgan pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. As he spoke to Garcia and the others began milling about looking for clues, Emily took a look around her. There was something they were all missing, she was sure of it. She wasn't sure if it was her professional instinct or what, but there was something out in the open that was being overlooked. _What was it?_

Emily took a sweeping glance around the living room. Though there was plenty to see, her attention was brought towards the heavy brown chair sitting right in the middle of the room. Even though it was clear Barrymore cared nothing about order, the way that piece of furniture was placed just...didn't look right.

On a hunch, she walked over towards it and, with a little effort, pushed it back.

On the floor in front of her was a metal trapdoor.

Emily reached down, grasped the handle and pulled it up. Beneath the ground she could see a wooden ladder going down about twelve feet into a tiny dark area. A few feet away, she saw a solid door with a bolt securing it. A glitter of light caught her eye on the wet ground nearby – _a broken off door handle_.

A look of determination crossed her face. Drawing her weapon from her holster, she flicked on the attached light, crouched down and started down the steps.

* * *

><p>Angie screamed. She struggled. She cried.<p>

Every pent-up emotion inside her came flooding out in a massive wave. She wasn't thinking rationally anymore. Everything going through her was pure instinct to survive.

Her captor dragged her back to the first hallway. Angie expected him to drag her back into the room she'd been imprisoned but instead held her in an unbreakable chokehold while he fished out the keys in his pocket and approached the door at the end. Angie heard the clanging of bolts as the door was unlocked and opened up. It was only when he pushed her though that she saw that on the other side was an empty small room.

"No! No, PLEASE!" She began struggling harder, desperately trying to break free, but the man was much bigger and stronger than her. He threw her onto the floor.

"You're gonna regret your lyin' ways, bitch." His eyes were murderous as he stared down at her. His hands went to grab her.

Angie made a mad dash for the still open door, crawling on hands and knees. He caught her easily, dragged her back and then pinned her face down into the filthy floor. Angie continued to fight, and then stopped when she felt the cold touch of sharp steel against her face. Leaning close, he put his mouth right against her ear. "Go ahead and struggle, darlin'; I love it when they fight."

Squeezing her eyes shut, Angie felt the tears run down her face...

"FBI! Drop the knife and let her go!"

Paul Barrymore's head jerked up as another person burst into the doorway. He saw a woman with dark hair tied in a ponytail wearing a bulletproof vest with the aforementioned acronym blazoned on the front of it. In her hands she held a gun that was pointed unwaveringly directly at him.

"I've got three places I can hit you from here, Paul: in the head, in the arm, or in the dick. In the head, you'll have the least pain but you'll die knowing it was a woman who beat you. In the arm, you'll be in a hell of a lot of pain but you'll live and will know it was a woman who beat you. In the dick is where you probably deserve it and my preferred spot; you'll be in a hell of a lot of pain, you'll never be able to piss standing up again _and _you'll live knowing it was a woman who beat you. It's time you learned to take women seriously. So what's it gonna be, Paul – head, arm, dick or surrender? You've got three seconds."

Paul stared at the no-bullshit face on the armed federal agent holding him at gunpoint from a distance of only a few feet away and he dropped his knife.

**TBC…**


	30. I-29

**Author's notes:**

**- Tupac Shakur (1971-1996) was a popular American rapper.**

* * *

><p>Emily stood in the Observation room, staring through the window. In Interrogation, Paul Barrymore sat alone, hands cuffed in front of him, rocking back and forth. She couldn't tell what was going through his mind, but one thing was for sure – she was damn certain she was looking at the real UnSub.<p>

"He say anything?" Rossi asked as he joined her.

"Nothing. He's just sat there acting as if he owns the place since we brought him in. Smug bastard," Emily spat. She could care less if she came across as harsh. This man was responsible for heinous crimes, including torture and murder. She didn't care if he'd had a screwed up childhood. All she knew is that she'd seen him try to rape a woman and an innocent man had nearly paid the price for his crimes. It would be a cold day in hell before she showed him a shred of sympathy.

"NYPD's reporting they found a collection of body parts and articles of mostly female clothing down in his basement area. Trophies from his victims most likely. Apparently there are more of them than there are known victims. We'll need DNA results to be sure, but…"

She nodded wearily, following his line of thought. "There's always more, aren't there?"

Rossi shook his head. "The guy's probably been working his way north for months. The road from North Carolina's a long one. You've got Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, even New Jersey. How many unsolved crimes are there because of him? How many families are looking for answers?"

"How many innocent people are in jail because law enforcement couldn't be bothered looking beyond their own noses?"

Rossi glanced at her. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

She turned to face him. "A young man almost had his life ruined, Rossi. He was all but branded a rapist and a murderer and thrown in jail like a common criminal. Damn right I'm not letting it go."

Rossi studied her. "Are you angrier at Barrymore for committing the crimes or Brighton for how he acted during Jackson's interrogation?"

Emily let out a deep breath. "I don't know. Look, I know Brighton's just doing his job but that was a hell of a lot of fire to throw at someone with such circumstantial evidence."

"We've done the same thing, Prentiss."

"No, we _haven't_. When the profile fits - when there's something in your gut that just _tells_ you that you're looking at the UnSub – yeah, okay, I admit to that. But not in this case. Not when you're looking for a man who hates women and instead bring in someone who's nothing more than an arrogant, cocky guy not used to being drilled and hammered like that. So no Dave, I don't excuse Brighton's behaviour."

"Emily, you don't have to convince me of anything," he said calmly. "I agree he could've handled it better. I'm sure JJ would tell you the same thing about how she acted. But you have to admit Jackson didn't do himself any favours by continuously lying about his alibi."

"Yeah, and that was stupid. But it's irrelevant now. We proved he has nothing to do with this. He could have been smoking dope and high as a kite rapping to Tupac in Harlem. I don't care. He's innocent - of rape, of murder, of kidnapping. That's all that matters."

Rossi nodded and turned back to the window. "Yeah. Good news is that he's pretty much in the clear. No evident link between him and Barrymore. He'll probably be released later today. Still, I'd like to know where he was and why he was so hesitant to tell us." He gave a chuckle. "Maybe he was telling the truth about being with a woman. Who knows? Maybe she was someone who was off-limits."

Emily managed to keep a neutral face. "Maybe."

"A married woman, you think? Mayor's daughter? Public official?"

She felt her jaw muscles all but creak from the pressure. "Probably."

Thankfully, he changed the subject. "Reid and JJ called in; Kim Seo-yeon was reunited with her parents at the hospital."

That quickly got her attention. "Is she okay?"

"Physically, she'll be fine. Mentally, I'm not sure. Doctors are saying she went through a hell of an ordeal."

"But he didn't…" Her voice trailed away.

"No," he quickly said. "You got there in time."

She released a breath and nodded. "Good."

"Don't know how you knew where to look, but I'm glad you did." A smile creased his lips under his goatee. "If it had been up to the rest of us, I'm not sure we would've made it in time. Her parents are calling you a hero and her guardian angel."

Emily blinked in surprise. She'd had people express gratitude towards her – they all had – but _that_ was something she never expected. "I'm not," she insisted. "She's the hero. She survived and withstood what he gave her. I didn't -"

"Emily," Rossi interrupted. "For once, just once, would it kill you to accept a compliment?"

She paused and stared back at him, unable to say anything, then looked back through the glass to the man from whom they'd rescued the terrified woman. So often, in fact far more often than what they cared to admit, they didn't get there in time to save innocent lives. She'd thought on more than one occasion that if the BAU was portrayed in a TV show, only about one case every couple of weeks could be shown as a complete success. And even then compliments were few and far between because the victims would be so traumatized or overwhelmed by emotion they couldn't express it. Now here she was rejecting being called a hero for… what? She didn't know. And maybe that was part of the problem. She was just doing her job, doing it for so long that maybe she'd become desensitized to some of the more terrible aspects of it. If true, it was a grim realization to have.

"In any case, we've got Barrymore cold," she said. "No way can he get out of this."

"The murders, yes. We still have no idea if and how he's connected to the bombings. For all we know, it might be completely unrelated. Right now we have no way of knowing."

"Let me talk to him." As he turned and looked at her, she went on. "You can make things happen with this team just as much as Hotch can. Barrymore's pissed and out of his element right now. If he slips up or tries to bargain by offering information, now would be the best time to go for it. He was arrested by a woman. He'd want to try to get control over that woman. He'll try to prove he's smarter and better than me. That's how we'll get him to talk."

Rossi paused for a moment, turning it over in his mind, and then nodded. "Alright."

Emily almost breathed a sigh of relief. She settled for returning the nod before turning and walking into Interrogation.

Paul Barrymore didn't look any happier to see her this time. In fact, he looked downright pissed. His eyes burned with anger and he breathed in and out audibly as she coolly walked over and took a seat across from him. "My name's Special Agent Emily Prentiss, Paul; I'm with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Now I could spin you a story about how we just want to clear a few things up with you, but to be honest that would be a total lie. You know that as well as I do, don't you?"

Silence. More heavy breathing.

"That's fine. I'll talk, you listen. Let me just give you a rundown of the crimes we've got you on. Kidnapping, assault, rape, attempted rape, murder. That's just from the crimes we know about. How many more are there, Paul? You've got quite the collection of trophies down in your little basement. Body parts, clothing of all kinds. Way more than what we know of right now."

She leaned in close to him. "Makes you feel powerful, huh? Raping and killing women gives you a hard-on. Only way you were able to get it up, isn't it?"

She swore she saw his eye twitch, but he continued to remain silent.

"That's right. You're special. That's what your mother said when you were a boy, isn't it? You're special, Paul; it was your job to make sure all those godless heathens knew just how special you were. And because of that, you thought it was your mission to kill them all - anyone who was different was a fair target. It was women, though, you really hated, wasn't it?"

"Whores." The first words out of his mouth seemed directed right at her. "Sluts, all of you."

"Yeah, I get that. And because Mommy told you that, it was your duty to kill them, right?"

"I did what any real man of God would do!" He shouted, slapping the table with his hand. "You harlots are the reason for all the wrongs of the world today! Witches, all of you! Spreading your filthy heathen words and deeds to corrupt men. Those sluts deserved everything they got!"

Emily smiled. _Here we go._ "How many have you killed?"

"Not nearly enough! And I'd have finished off with that baby-killing slut if you hadn't stuck your nose in!"

"Yeah, about that. That girl you tortured and tried to rape was trying to protect herself before you kidnapped her. Her prescription for birth control was to ensure she didn't have a child she couldn't take care of. And you know what, Paul? She's going to make a full recovery. And she's got her whole life ahead of her out there while you spend the rest of your life in a cell."

He got up so fast, the chair went flying backwards and the cuffs chaining him to the floor strained. Unintimidated, Emily leaned in closer. "We've got you, Paul. There's no explaining all this. No insanity plea is going to get you off. You're going to prison for the rest of your miserable little life. There's nothing you can say that'll make that go away. But I _am_ curious about one thing. Who did you work with?"

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Oh Paul, Paul." She shook her head. "Give me a break. You think I was born yesterday? You think any jury will believe you put together this master plan of killing random victims and blowing up buildings?"

"I didn't blow up any buildings!"

"Oh, I know. That's not your style. Blowing up buildings requires someone who's actually smart."

He lunged across the desk at her. She easily moved out of the way and pinned his hands to the table. "You wanna put me in my place, Paul? Try and show me who's boss? Come on." She made a 'come here' gesture with her hand. "Why don't you try taking down a woman who'll fight back?"

As he shook with rage, she looked him dead in the eye. "You won't, will you? Because you're a coward. You love beating on restrained and helpless young women half your size. You're done, Paul. Finished. Nothing left."

"I shoulda killed you when I had the chance." His anger literally coated his voice. "Just like he said to!"

_Bingo._ "Who told you?"

"It's just like he said!" He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I told him you'd be special, should save you for last! He said I'm crazy – that _I'm_ crazy! That on the battlefield you treat a woman enemy the same as you treat a male. Like you're equal to men or somethin'! He was right; I shoulda cut your tongue out the second you got here!"

"What's his name, Paul?"

"There's only one name that matters and that's God's! He gave me the tools to cleanse this world of all the filth that infects it. God's word cannot be suppressed!"

"His name."

"I ain't saying another thing to you, witch!"

"As you like." She got up. "But somehow I doubt God's going to have much to say when they throw you in a cell for the rest of your life."

The chains creaked as he strained against them. Emily had to admit that up to that point, she'd never have someone give her such a look of pure hatred. It was unnerving, even to her. "I'll kill you," he growled. "I'll get out and I'll kill you nice and slow, bitch."

"You won't be doing either of those, but here's something you can think about." Leaning forward, she put her hands on the desk and locked eyes with him. "I want you to know, I want you to think about every day after all the pain you've caused, that a young woman was stronger than you. I want you to know that after everything you thought about how weak women are, it was a woman responsible for putting you in jail. And you know what, Paul? The other inmates will likely find out what you did. Who do you think will be the bitch then?"

She turned on her heel and walked out.

In Observation, she found Rossi had been joined by Hotch and Brighton. Looking at the detective, she asked, "You get what you need?"

Brighton nodded. "With all the evidence at his place and his confession, it looks like a slam dunk. He'll be doing some hard time."

He deserved more than that, Emily thought to herself. A _lot_ more. "And Jackson?"

"He'll be released within the hour."

Emily breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Barrymore may have been responsible for these murders, but I believe him when he says he had nothing to do with the bombings," Hotch said.

"You think he'll eventually tell us who is?" Brighton asked.

"I'm not sure he even knows the bomber's name. It's likely they would've kept a lot of their plans secret from him."

"Could be they saw him as a weak link and decided not to risk giving any crucial information," Rossi added.

"How does that help us?"

"Barrymore gave us more than he thought," Hotch replied. "He said the bomber talked to him about enemies on the battlefield."

"Which likely has significance to him," Emily said. "How he views the world was influenced by it. Could be a soldier."

Rossi nodded. "Wouldn't be the first time someone in uniform went off the deep end."

Hotch turned to Brighton. "Get your officers together. Rossi, call the others. We're ready to give the profile."

* * *

><p>"We're looking for a white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty," Hotch announced to the assembled group of NYPD uniforms. "We believe he resides somewhere close to downtown and has access to transportation that can get him anywhere in the city he needs to go."<p>

"We think it's possible that our UnSub is suffering from PTSD; Posttraumatic Stress Disorder," Reid continued. "Sufferers often experience flashbacks to particular incidents of extreme violence in their lives."

"Which could likely mean he's highly unstable," Morgan said. "He would react abnormally to stimuli that other people would find harmless; a jackhammer going off for example, or an airplane flying overhead. It might bring back memories that cause him to go into an alternate state of mind."

"Our UnSub is intelligent enough to build timer-based explosives, but may not necessarily have the formal education for it," Emily explained. "Given the apparent political motivations of the attacks he may have encountered it in his line of work, so look for men recently discharged from the military including Special Forces personnel and explosives experts."

"Up until now, the UnSub has maintained a rather low profile without getting too physically involved," JJ went on. "However, given his likely state of mind and the fact that his plans have been disrupted in the last few days, he may try for a more personal approach to his next target."

"At this point we're unsure whether he's acting alone or as part of a larger group." Rossi declared. "If the latter's the case, it's also possible he's just using them to accomplish his own objectives."

"What other ones could he have?" one cop in the front row asked, waving a pen.

"If the UnSub suffered a traumatic event as we suspect he has, he likely would seek to rectify that," Emily explained. "He might see a group as his best means of getting to it. These smaller attacks may indicate they're building up to one large one as the culmination of their plan. Our UnSub may try to manipulate the plan to suit his desires as he sees fit."

"Based on our estimates, the time towards when he may strike next is rapidly approaching. It could be today or tomorrow at the latest. Keep your eyes and ears open, but also exercise extreme caution as he's likely highly trained and therefore very dangerous. If you think you may have a possible encounter, don't engage him alone." Hotch surveyed the room. "That's all."

As the cops began filing out, Brighton came up to the team. Glancing around, he spoke in a low tone of voice, "I don't need to tell you how many officers are uneasy about hearing there's a military-trained lunatic running around."

"We have a profile of who we're looking for and we've thrown a wrench into his plans. If need-be, we'll go public with his description. We'd rather avoid that, but if we don't find him in the next day or so, he's going to make his next move on his own. We know more about him now than a few hours ago, so if it comes to that, we'll be ready," Hotch responded.

"Hey, I'll be the first to admit New Yorkers don't intimidate easily, but the last thing I want is for them to read in the _Times_ about how he plans to turn this city into Baghdad. You have any idea how many ex-soldiers reside in New York? A man can easily blend in here when he wants."

"We'll be running the profile against any known individuals who fit the criteria. When we find him, it's best for it to be on our terms."

"And if we don't?"

Hotch's face hardened. He turned and stared out the window at the sun setting over the skyscrapers. His silence confirmed to everyone what they were thinking - if they didn't find the UnSub soon, he was going to find them.

**TBC…**


	31. I-30

**Author's notes:**

**- The KKK (Ku Klux Klan) is a white supremacy group. Originating in the United States in the aftermath of the Civil War, it's described as the country's oldest terrorist organization.**

**- Misogyny is the hatred of women. The opposite, hatred of men, is called misandry. **

* * *

><p>Shaun let out a deep breath in anticipation. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and as he inhaled again lowered his chest to the floor. Pausing for a brief moment, he let the burn settle in his muscles before pushing himself back while exhaling on the way up.<p>

_Fifty-three. Only forty-seven more to go._

If there was one thing he retained from his time in the military, it was how to keep fit. Uncle Sam spent no expense when it came to training its soldiers. Skill and technique weren't enough; you had to outlast the enemy, so endurance was key. It's another thing that gave him an advantage over the others in this group. He didn't need to shoot himself up with steroids or spray bullets everywhere in a fit of psychosis to succeed. He could outlast everyone else. That was where he would succeed and they would fail. That was where he would survive and the government agents would die.

_Sixty_.

Shaun had nothing but hatred and disgust for anyone that represented the federal government. They'd armed and trained him not to defend freedom, but to kill. And when they'd taken all that they could get from him, they cut him loose and tossed him aside. He was expendable in their eyes. Replaceable. It didn't matter in the slightest the damage they'd done to him. There was a bigger picture that caught their eye. There was _always_ a bigger picture; the smaller one didn't matter unless you were caught in the middle of it. And he had been.

_Sixty-five._

He should have figured that out long ago, before that final mission ever began. Right when he found out the CIA would be coordinating the op. But he hadn't because he was a loyal soldier. A soldier never disobeyed a direct order. So when he found out from Command that he and his team would be working directly with Langley in Pakistan, he'd thought nothing of it. The CIA had been operating out of this section of the world for years. Besides, in Pakistan they'd need all the help they could get – it was largely Somalia-Lite, rife with insurgency, corruption and extremism. To him, there were no innocents there; the entire country was full of violent jihadists who preached hatred and violence against America and urged its citizens to do their duty 'as good Muslims' to sacrifice themselves and kill as many Americans as possible.

_Seventy._

Shaun had been mistaken – horribly mistaken. He should have had an inkling right at the moment he met Langley's team leader in Afghanistan. None of the men in his unit ever found out his real name. He'd introduced himself as Shade – possibly his idea of a joke since he almost always wore dark sunglasses that completely concealed his eyes. A few of the Rangers, including Shaun, privately called him Bald Asshole. His personality was such that if you were to encounter this man in a bar or on a dark street, you'd feel the hair on your neck stand on edge. There was just something about him – something _off_.

Perhaps that should have told Shaun to back off and get out while he could, but it didn't. Nor did it when Shade made it clear he was willing to do anything to achieve his objectives. And his objective then seemed to be wiping out a particular Islamist group operating out of the lawless tribal areas bordering Afghanistan and Pakistan. In order to get to them, Shade identified and captured an alleged 'courier' of the group and waterboarded him until he gave up the location of their supposed safehouse. Shaun had gone along with this because he wanted to believe that deep down this would help keep his country safe and that it would somehow all come together in the end. He would turn out to be very wrong.

_Seventy-five._

The op was supposed to be relatively simple. The Rangers and CIA team would launch a joint assault on the safehouse and capture/kill any hostiles, of which several were allegedly high-ranking members of LeT. But the operation turned into a proverbial shit storm. Their element of surprise was lost the moment they entered the house; instead of catching the militants off guard, they were instead met with automatic gunfire from two Kalashnikov-wielding terrorists. The ensuing firefight resulted in the deaths of almost everyone; the terrorists and both raiding teams except for him and Shade. That was when things _really_ went to hell.

_Eighty_.

Shaun should have seen the woman first. He should have seen her come out from another room with her hands raised first. He should have recognized that, despite being dressed in conservative local clothing, she was speaking English with an unmistakable North American accent. But he wasn't fast enough.

Before he could even get a word out, Shade had raised his handgun, aimed at the woman's head and pulled the trigger dead centre in the middle of her forehead, dropping her on the spot. It was so quick neither she nor Shaun had the chance to respond. Something clattered out of her hand and fell across the floor. His first thought was that it had been a weapon of some kind. Coming to a halt at his feet, he saw what it really was – a camera. He picked it up – good quality, not cheap – and Shade promptly took it from him. "Government property now, soldier." Then added with a smirk, "Thanks for your help."

_Ninety._

He should have shot him. Shaun should have blown the back of his head open right then and there. But he hadn't. He'd stood there as the bastard walked away and hadn't done a damn thing. He didn't know what Shade had meant by that. He didn't even know what had happened in the last minute. Maybe that's why he'd walked out and followed the CIA agent. Relying on that old training. _Always follow orders_. And he had.

_A hundred_. With a groan, he stood up and walked over to a chair to sit down and catch his breath.

He should've known things wouldn't have ended there, but he didn't think about it at the time. He'd just wanted to get the hell out of there as quick as possible and debrief with Command. It was only then that he realized how bad the situation was. The safehouse _was_ a militant stronghold and the majority of the occupants killed were LeT – except for the woman.

Not only was she not a terrorist, she wasn't a local either – but American.

Her name was Amin Abid. Born and raised in Dayton, Ohio and the sole child of Pakistani immigrants, she was a thirty-one year old correspondent with the Pashtun language bureau of a major news organization based in the Middle East. According to reports that quickly came out as news of her death became public, she was working on a story that told the side of the militant groups who ruled the lawless border regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Her editors claimed she'd been working for the better part of a year to be allowed access to LeT's world; she faced barriers not only because of where she came from but also her gender, LeT being both highly anti-American and also very conservative in their views on women's roles in the world. Finally, after much struggling and determination on her part, she was able to secure an interview with several high-ranking members of the group in one of their safehouses.

The same safehouse she would be killed – no, _executed_ in.

As word of her death spread and questions were raised as to how she was killed, the massive PR machine of the U.S. government went into overdrive. First they refused to confirm anything other than the fact that an American citizen had been killed in Pakistan. Then they acknowledged that "U.S. forces" had conducted an operation that "might" have been the same one in which she was killed. From there, the ball just kept rolling faster and faster. The story kept changing: Abid was being held hostage by LeT and the U.S. forces were there to rescue her; LeT killed her during the raid, believing her to be a spy who had led them to their safehouse. But the worst of it came when several high-ranking military brass seemed to shift the blame from Abid's killer to Abid herself.

"Her fate was ultimately based on her choices," one senior military official was quoted as saying in the _New York Times_. "While undeniably tragic, Ms. Abid's death was largely due to her own decision to enter hostile territory without giving any notification to U.S. or Pakistani authorities. She chose to place herself with established enemies of the United States despite knowing the high risk that carried."

Then came the accusations. First from her family who accused the military of treating her as an LeT member without bothering to check who they were shooting. They noted the official death certificate listed her death as being caused from a single gunshot directly to the head, and declared it was almost like she had been 'executed.' Then they made accusations of murder. Abid's mother tearfully told _The Dayton Daily News_ that Amin "was the wrong colour at the wrong moment. To them, she was just another Pakistani dressed in traditional Islamic clothing. That was enough justification for her to be killed."

The reaction was near instantaneous. Within days, several high-ranking authority figures put a lot of effort into questioning the innocence of the slain woman. One Congressman noted the media organization she worked for had "often been prone to anti-Americanism," which, as Shaun later figured, was really a fancy way of saying it often told the side that was at odds with official U.S. accounts. Reports began appearing on TV and radio programs, allegedly from "high-ranking sources," that Abid's social media presence indicated "disturbing suggestions of radicalization." Offered up as proof were articles she'd written about the disproportionate number of civilians deaths from drone strikes in the region, as well as pictures on her Facebook page of known Jewish institutions in Ohio that these sources said were future targets for Muslim extremists. As far as any rational thinking person could tell, they were vacation pictures she'd taken with friends during a summer holiday. That didn't stop the rumours from swirling. No one actually came out and said it but the suggestion was there: Amin Abid was not at the safehouse as a journalist covering a story, but as a terrorist who believed firmly in the radical form of Islam that preached hatred of America and everything it stood for.

Abid's family saw things much differently. "My daughter was not a terrorist," her father told the _Daily News_. "She loved everyone and everything about this country. She had many different friends of many different faiths, including Jews and Christians. They may have shared different opinions on matters, but who thinks the same as anyone else? To suggest she would plot to kill innocent people is unimaginable."

The Abids went to court. First they filed suit against the U.S. military for wrongful death. That was dismissed offhand. Then they took their fight all the way to the Supreme Court. After much wrangling and fighting with a lot of heated emotion thrown in, the court declined to hear the case, citing national security and the potential compromising of U.S. intelligence assets should the case go forward. One justice noted that Amin's killing, while "an undeniably tragic mistake" was caused largely by her decision to go into a hot-zone unescorted.

At first Shaun didn't pay attention to the news; part of his debrief. Then when he was sent back stateside he began listening.

And listening.

And listening some more. The more he listened, the more his suspicions grew. Had her death been a tragic coincidence? After two days of being glued to his TV set, going over the sequence of events over and over in his mind, he hadn't the slightest doubt anymore that the killing was anything less than an assassination.

The CIA had assassinated an American journalist. And Shaun had been a party to it.

Looking back, it was easy to see how he'd been manipulated into it. He and the rest of the Rangers were to deal with the militants, leaving the Agency to clean up their loose ends. And it only took the lives of several good men to do it. And the more he thought about it, the more suspicious he got about the true target of the operation.

Shade had been all too eager to get her camera before Shaun could. _Government property_ was what he'd call it. Why? Evidence from the scene? Evidence of what?

Then a more concerning thought came to his mind: had the op been meant to kill/capture the high-ranking LeT members, _or had it been to kill a pesky journalist who might have gotten information the U.S. government didn't want coming out?_

Shaun didn't know the answer and quite frankly, he didn't care. In his mind, what the government had done was nothing short of betrayal. Betrayal of the soldiers they claimed to hold up in such high regard and betrayal of its civilians abroad. The Abids would never get justice for their daughter, and the lives of the men lost under his command had been for nothing – just collateral damage in Washington's rabid desire for power in the world.

Well, he was still around, wasn't he? And he could do something about it, would do something about it. The government would regret their tyrannical betraying ways.

He got up and walked out of the room and headed for the stairs leading to the ground floor. As he passed another room, he turned his head automatically at the sound of a loud grunt from within. Rook stood in front of a mirror that filled most of the wall. Weights and exercise machines filled the surrounding area. Dressed in a white tank top and shorts, the larger man bared his teeth and let put another animalistic grunt as he curled a 150 lb dumbbell in one hand and then repeated the action with his opposite one. Veins as large and thick as earthworms bulged out of his massive arms covered in sweat. From Shaun's perspective, it seemed the man was never content with his size. He was always aiming to get bigger and stronger all the time, obviously thinking it was the key to being the ultimate warrior.

Shaun shook his head in disgust – the man could lift all the iron and pop all the steroids he wanted and it may add numbers to his weight and measurements, but it wouldn't increase his limited intelligence by a fraction. Not that there had been much there in the first place. It was clear Rook served his purpose in this little outfit: follow orders, intimidate, and snap a neck if need-be. And if he kept roiding, he might just drop dead of heart failure before any of that needed to be carried out.

As he watched his 'colleague' snarl in pain and frustration, he realized he recognized the style of lifting. It wasn't professional like he'd seen back in the military. It was one adopted in a more confined area with people watching you that you didn't necessarily want to watch you.

"Where'd you do your time?" he said.

Rook dropped the weights on the mat and stared over at him. "Huh?"

"Where'd you do your time?"

"The hell you talkin' about?"

"There's only one place I've seen guys lift weights looking like someone might club them from behind and that's prison. Where'd you do time?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Cause I asked."

"Shit, you're one strange guy." Rook rolled his huge shoulders. "Colorado. Since you _asked_."

"What for?"

"Manslaughter." He said it as casually as if he'd been asked what he had for lunch.

"What happened?"

"Some guy got killed and they said I did it."

"Specifics, Rook."

"Why you so curious all of a sudden?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You secretly five-oh or something?"

"Do I look like a cop?"

"You look like a nutcase."

Shaun ignored that. "Whatever. What happened with your conviction?"

"Did I say I was convicted? Look, me and some dude got in an argument over hell knows what. Money or beer or something. Guy thinks he's hot shit and tries to get in my face and intimidate me. Bastard's probably a buck twenty soaking wet and he's trying to show me what a tough motherfucker he is. I bitch-slapped his ass and he fell and hit his head on the concrete. Died a few days later. My lawyer told me if I pleaded guilty it would be manslaughter instead of murder – ten years instead of life - so I bit the bullet, did my time and that's it."

Shaun was silent for a moment before nodding. "Okay."

"Why you wanna know all that anyway?"

He shrugged. "Curious."

"Yeah, whatever." Rook cracked his neck.

When he didn't say anything more, Shaun assumed he'd finished talking, so he turned and walked towards the door when Rook called out, "So where'd you do time?"

"What?"

"Don't screw around and act all innocent, soldier boy. Anyone who knows what happens in jail has been in jail. What was it?"

Shaun paused and looked back. "Why do you wanna know?"

"Curious." Rook smirked. "And I _asked_. So spill. Where and what for?"

"Jersey." Shaun chose his words carefully. "Exercising my rights as an American."

"What's that mean?"

"It means the government wanted to pretend the Constitution didn't exist. That the Second Amendment meant nothing."

Rook laughed. "Ah, gun lover, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Well, we'll be putting that right soon enough." He grinned. "Especially with the federal pigs. I call dibs on the blonde bitch and her nigger boyfriend."

Shaun felt his jaw tighten ever so slightly. "Don't say that in front of me."

Rook, in the middle of bending down, stopped and straightened up. "What'd you say?"

"I said don't say that in front of me."

"What?"

"That word."

"What word?"

"You know which one."

"What, nigger?" He gave a casual wave of his hand. "What's wrong with it?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with it." Shaun got right up in his face. Rook may have a size advantage over him but he was already planning what bones of the bigger man's he could break first. "Carl and the guy running this op may like your bigotry, but I don't. I served with black men, men who I'd walk into hell and back with. That's something you know _nothing_ about. So don't you stand there and laugh and joke like this is some kind of KKK meeting where we all use racist terms as loosely as you use roids, you got it?"

"Fine, fine," Rook mumbled. "Whatever you say. God forbid, I _offend_ you or some shit."

Shaun could tell if things kept going in the direction they were going now, this room was going to be newly coloured red in someone's blood. Rather than risk that or chance lowering his IQ by continuing to talk to Rook, he walked out and made his way up the stairs.

Shaun wasn't sure if the shaking in his hands was from rage or nerves or what. All he knew is that he seemed to be surrounded with the absolute lowest form of scum no matter where he went. What Rook and the others didn't seem to realize is that he really couldn't care less about their narrow-minded view of the world. He was in with them to make the federal government take notice of the fact that it couldn't just betray its law-abiding citizens and not expect some kind of reaction. And that was exactly what he was going to do. If that meant he had to throw in with a bunch of psychos, racists and misogynists – at least for now – he would.

At the top of the stairs, he made a line straight for what Carl had dubbed the "conference room," which in reality was the study of the guy who ran this little outfit. Hardly the place for calling meetings but then again it wasn't up to him what the guy preferred to do in his own place. He strode in to find the man himself behind his desk studying a series of still shots and reports on the screen behind him.

"What's the deal here?" Shaun said, coming to stop right in front of him. The older man turned his chair. He didn't say anything, just stared at him. It unnerved Shaun. "I'm tired of the small, insignificant stuff and waiting around with your goon squad. What are we doing – _really _doing – and when?"

"Tomorrow and you'll find out later." His companion turned back to the screen. "Take the rest of the night off; you'll need to be in the right frame of mind."

"Right frame of mind for _what_?" Shaun demanded.

"As I said, you'll find out later."

"That's not good enough! I don't go into situations without at least some sense of what I'm facing! Now you tell me what's going to happen right now or you can forget about getting any help from me."

"In case you didn't know, you're not the only member of this group who counts for something." The man turned back around, leaned forward and fixed Shaun with an unblinking stare.

"Yeah? Well, I'm starting to think nothing of this op counts for anything!" Shaun came around the other side of the desk. "All we've been doing is sending out a few firecrackers here and there and sitting around doing nothing. Now all of a sudden you're telling me something's happening tomorrow but can't tell me what?"

"It counts for something, believe me. And I apologize for the short notice, but things had to be moved forward. Our human distraction was caught today and it's only a matter of time before he says more than he should to the FBI."

Shaun snorted. "You're worried about him blathering all about your little operation?"

"_Our_ operation, Shaun. And if I was worried, believe that I would be much busier right now than I am." He didn't let on that the fact he wasn't worried was that if Paul Barrymore did talk to law enforcement, it wouldn't be him who was incriminated.

"So why all the secrecy?"

"Because I choose it to be that way. You're a military man – you of all people should understand that the best operations happen when you are forced to be on your toes and not focusing on Plan A when that plan has already been shot to hell."

"Easy for you to say," Shaun grumbled, looking around the impressively decorated room. "You're sitting here in luxury expecting your idiot goon squad to be competent enough to face down the most powerful federal agency in the world. Not something they learned in their trailer parks."

"You stereotype too much. But your point is well-taken. And that's part of the reason you're here, Shaun." The man smiled as he leaned back in his chair and poured himself a glass of whiskey that Shaun thought probably cost more than what the average New Yorker earned in a month. "You're my number one guy. You have the experience that most others could only dream of, and you have reason to use it. The federal government betrayed you in your hour of need and then washed their hands clear of a murder they committed of an American citizen. Don't they deserve to have a taste of their own medicine?"

They did, Shaun thought. They did and they were long overdue for it. His mind hadn't been right ever since that incident; he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful day or a night that wasn't plagued by nightmares. The government – and by extension the FBI – had brought hell upon his life. It was time to return the favour.

"Trust me – after tomorrow, things will be looking up." The man took a deep sip from his glass, looked at it approvingly. "I promise you."

"I'm not big on promises," Shaun grunted.

"I didn't expect you to be. So allow me to give you a little heads-up on who you might have the pleasure of meeting tomorrow, as a show of good faith on my part."

The man picked up a remote, pointed it at the screen and pressed a button. In an instant, five pictures popped up, three on top and two on the bottom. All were headshots of different people.

"These men and women are part of the FBI team that was sent down to assist the NYPD two days ago. The Behavioral Analysis Unit, I believe they're called. They busted up our friend Paul's little God fantasy earlier today. An assorted group, each with different strengths and talents. They're here to make sure our plan doesn't go through." He shot the ex-Ranger a look. "I don't need to tell you that can't be allowed to happen. If they should happen to get in your way, well…" He shrugged his shoulders.

Shaun stared at the photos of the three men and two women, at the titles beside their names. Special Agent. Supervisory Special Agent. _Doctor_? He shook his head. Rook had been wrong when he said he was going to kill some of them; he wouldn't get the chance.

Not after _he_ was done.

Studying their faces in detail, he didn't notice that his companion was also looking intently at the pictures of the agents.

Or specifically _one_ of the agents.

In detail.

_Great_ detail.

_In time, _the man thought. _In time._

He took another sip of whiskey and said a silent toast to the agent in question.

**TBC…**

**A/N: Scene alert for the next chapter!**


	32. I-31

**A/N: SCENE ALERT!**

**Homage to the 2011 video game **_**L.A. Noire.**_

_**Mrs. Doubtfire**_** is a 1993 comedy film starring Robin Williams and Sally Field.**

* * *

><p>Emily groaned as she walked out of the apartment building that Paul Barrymore had lived in and brought his victims to before he tortured, raped and killed them. She felt dirty, contaminated, even though she had not been inside that particular apartment again. She couldn't help it; the entire building had an atmosphere of poison within its walls, almost like an invisible cloud of the toxic gas that had swept silently over the battlefields of France during World War I. She figured the residents who lived here likely either had grown accustomed to it or had worse things on their mind.<p>

How bad did it have to be, she wondered, before one could ignore the suffering of their fellow citizens? What was the price for torture, for rape, for murder?

Rossi was waiting for her outside, talking on his cell phone. He hung as he saw her. "How'd things go with the manager?"

"You remember in Atlanta when Paul Thomas thought he was real slick and smooth in teaching desperate, hapless saps to pick up women from clubs?"

"Yeah, and we determined that UnSub was learning his tricks from Thomas' classes. As I recall, he tried those tricks on you and Agent Todd."

"The manager could use a lesson in tact from him. He stared at my chest the whole time, hit on me in a very slimy way and probably would have tried to cop a feel had I not had my gun out on display."

"Such charming members of the human male you attract," Rossi said with a barely repressed chuckle. "Personally I think it's your sunny disposition."

"Yeah, or the sight of anything with a pair of breasts is enough to bring the rats out of their hole," Emily growled. She was in no mood to discuss the type of men she attracted. "I did learn one thing though. Paul Barrymore was the textbook definition of a recluse. Lived alone, rarely went out, never had anyone over – that he didn't rape or kill anyway – and never owned a car or computer or even a phone."

Rossi shrugged. "Not surprising since he was taught from a young age that the world and everyone in it is evil."

"That's exactly my point. Assuming he did talk to the UnSub at some point, he'd have to go somewhere else to meet him. And the kind of stuff they would've discussed is not something you sit around a crowded bar talking about."

"A private residence, you think? We theorized the UnSub lived near downtown New York, not Brooklyn. He couldn't have walked all the way there and something tells me he wouldn't want to take a cab. That leaves private transport. But you just said he doesn't have any, so it would have to be the UnSub's or someone else involved in this."

Emily nodded. "That was my guess too."

"But where are we gonna find proof of that? There are no video cameras in or around the building."

"What about the surrounding streets? Surely there are traffic cameras at the busy intersections."

Rossi's face became thoughtful. He thumbed his phone. "That might be an idea. I'll see if Garcia can pull anything."

Emily stopped him as he started to dial. "Could we maybe do it somewhere else? This place is starting to give me the creeps." It wasn't an empty declaration on her part; she wanted to get as far away from the poisonous atmosphere of Paul Barrymore's torture house as possible. Very few things in this business had put a feeling of real disgust in her stomach – until now.

A look of understanding creased his face. "You too, huh? Hotch wants us back at the station anyway. Feel like taking the wheel this time?"

She did and soon the agents were speeding back on their way downtown. As Rossi gave instructions to Garcia on his cell, Emily's eyes glanced from the road to the skyline. The sun was in the late stages of setting and the warm late April night was quickly descending on the Empire State; the sky turning more and more orange. The subtle consistent sound of gravel crunching underneath their tires unnerved her.

She took a deep breath and as soon as her partner had hung up she said, "Can I ask you something personal?"

Rossi looked over at her in slight surprise but shrugged. "Long as you can talk and drive at the same time."

Emily chose her words carefully. "We have a hard job, right? We deal with horrific crimes committed by some of the worst people in the world. It takes a certain type of person to deal with that every day and still be able to go home every night."

"As I've known all too well for the last thirty years," he agreed.

"How do you… I mean, it must have been difficult having to balance life outside of work, right?"

"What life?" He chuckled. "My ex-wife said I was more alive when I was looking at a mutilated body than on our honeymoon."

"Which one was that?"

"All of them. But mostly Carolyn." As he abruptly grew silent, Emily wondered whether than she had crossed a line. The memory of the deceased woman was clearly still fresh in his mind. But he continued on. "I guess she was right. I made the classic mistake I told myself I'd never do – bring the work home. Oh, not the crime scene photos or anything like that, but the mentality. A person who spends most of his waking hours wondering what an UnSub is doing to his victims is not very pleasant to talk to after a while. Then one day, I came home from a case to find my bags packed. She'd had enough, and I don't blame her. It takes a special kind of person to do this work, but it takes an _extra_ special kind of person to be with someone who is."

"So," she said slowly. "You think that it's possible to have a life separate from the job?"

"If you don't want to lose your sanity, yeah." Rossi leaned back. "Thing is there are very few people who can manage to do it. Overall, I'd say our team has a rare not-so-bad record within law enforcement; Hotch has Jack and Beth, JJ has Will and Henry, Reid wants kids and I'm sure would find plenty of women happy to be with him, and Morgan and Garcia have…whatever they have. Not too shabby if you ask me."

Emily remained silent, pushing the gas pedal just a bit further down. Rossi's words had made her think hard about things she normally didn't, but it was true; very few people would be willing to be with someone who was constantly surrounded by the absolute worst of humanity. She'd heard of far too many instances of agents' relationships breaking down under the stress of trying to balance work with home life. Even their team hadn't been spared. Hotch and his wife Haley had divorced before she'd been killed. Morgan had gone through countless relationships. And as for her…

"Why the sudden interest?" His voice interrupted her thoughts. "Is this the precursor to letting me know about your pending nuptials?"

Emily's heart gave an unexpected jump in her chest. "No! I mean…no. It's just… something I just think about from time to time. I don't know why."

Rossi shrugged. A simple, wordless gesture, but something about it troubled her; she got the impression that he could tell she wasn't being quite truthful but was smart enough not to come out and say it. Hoping to sidestep any additional questions and risk falling victim to his veteran investigative skills she asked, "How do you manage to do it?"

"What?"

"Stay sane."

He chuckled. "Oh, a lot of things. Writing, good company every day at work, fine Italian cuisine… and a good Chardonnay to top it all off. What about you?"

"Nerdy books, a cat that cleans up after himself and the occasional insanely expensive drink that doesn't leave you with too bad a hangover in the morning," Emily said.

Rossi looked over at her. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"A hot bubble bath, wine and Vonnegut?"

He laughed. "I think I'll start with the alcohol and see where things go from there. So…up for a glass or two before calling it a night?"

"Sure." She checked the rear-view mirror, a simple innocent-looking gesture. "Why not?"

"Exactly what I thought. There's nothing to end the day better than a bottle of fine Italian wine."

She nodded. "I'm going to hold you to that."

But Emily's mind was not on the wine.

* * *

><p>Detective Brighton sat at his desk. He was tired, his head was aching and he felt as if his hair was going greyer by the minute. Rubbing his temples in an attempt to alleviate his nerves, he sat back and looked away from the files on his desk for the first time in a while. He should be on his way home now, looking forward to seeing his wife and daughters and hearing all about their days. It had helped him more than once relieve some of the stress from his job. But the current case was taking a lot out of him. Not only did he have the chief and the public to answer to, he also had the FBI and their alleged expertise to manage as well.<p>

Though he hadn't told anyone, Brighton could say with certainty that he would sleep a lot easier knowing that Paul Barrymore was behind bars. Not only as a husband or a father, but also as a cop. It was one thing to say you were going to catch a serial killer; it was another to catch one. It was another thing altogether to save a life while you were at it. And it was yet another different thing to admit you had made a mistake.

Yes, he had been wrong about Scott Jackson. The young man had turned out to be completely innocent, that had been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. Despite the seemingly overwhelming circumstantial evidence against him, he wasn't a killer.

Brighton remembered the look in the kid's face as he hammered at him, accusing him of some of the most horrific crimes that could be committed. He remembered the shock and fear in Jackson's eyes and would have to live with the knowledge that he'd put it there. Privately, Brighton had to admit he was relieved when Jackson had been cleared. He'd seen far too many criminals in the infancy of their adulthood have their lives ruined, more often than not by a stupid mistake. Life behind bars could be extremely harsh, especially for sex offenders, and Jackson was not suited for prison life - that had been obvious right away.

Still, the guy hadn't made it easy on himself. Despite his apparent innocence, the detective was absolutely convinced Jackson was hiding something. He had yet to produce a viable alibi and had lied numerous times when questioned about it. Why had he been so reluctant to reveal where he was at the time of the murders and abduction? Brighton couldn't shake the feeling that the young man was – in _some _way – involved in this case. He might not be guilty, may not even be involved in any criminal activity, but he was a part of it. There was something Jackson didn't want anyone finding out, and now, thanks in large part to the lobbying of Agent Prentiss, he likely would never know what it was.

Brighton frowned. A curious woman that Agent Prentiss. So determined to prove that they had been wrong in thinking Jackson was the killer. Sure, in the end she had been right, but she couldn't have known that at the time, could she? The FBI profilers, he had heard before they'd arrived, liked things to be their way, but before they'd gotten the tip on Barrymore it seemed like all the agents were inclined to believe Jackson was guilty – except Prentiss. _How could she have been so sure?_

"Heard you brought in a real fine gentleman from Brooklyn today, Jeremy."

He looked up to see a familiar, grinning face staring down at him and felt the tension in his shoulders relax immediately. "You could say that. Might just beat you for the worst scumbag ever busted in this department, Harry."

"You don't want to start trading war stories, trust me. And we're not the same department. Doesn't matter anyway. Shit is still shit whether it's bull or horse."

"Which one do you get in Sex Crimes?"

"Both, with dog thrown in sometimes. You mind?"

"Go ahead." Brighton gestured as his companion eased himself into the next chair. Harry Royce was something of a legend in the NYPD. At fifty-seven years old, he was the oldest of all the detectives on the force; Brighton had been partnered with him when he was first promoted to Homicide and they had stayed partners for several years before Royce moved on to Sex Crimes. It was a new decade – indeed a new century – but he still carried around the same old school mentality he had thirty years ago. His reddish hair was turning grey, his face wrinkled after decades of police work and hard living. His cheap brown suits were infamous; the only way to tell whether or not he had slept in them was to check the daily food or coffee stain on his shirt. He worked hard and drank harder, he was still politically incorrect enough to refer to his colleagues as 'men' even though half were women, and preferred the old school ways of gathering evidence as opposed to 'all the newfound computer crap' as he was fond of saying – which didn't prevent him from using it when he needed to. Twice married and divorced, a daughter he saw only periodically – yep, that was Harry Royce. All he needed was a matching hat and he'd have been a shoe-in for one of those cops from films set in the 1930s or 40s. Brighton half expected him to light up a cigarette. He didn't.

"What brings you all the way down here?"

Royce lifted his hands. "Can't a man come and see his old partner?"

"Could, but you aren't. How many times have you done that in the last five years?"

"Good point. You mind?" Royce asked for the second time in less than a minute. "I'm starving." He pointed to the cold ham sandwich with mustard and pickles sitting on Brighton's desk – his long forgotten lunch.

"Do you really need to ask? Better you eating that crap than me."

"Hah." The older man took a big bite. "I worked up an appetite in Interrogation," he said through a mouthful of meat and bread. "Heard about the East Side Rapist? One that's been at large for six months?" Brighton nodded. "We got him. Some pansy little bastard who lived in the same apartment as the first victim. Fucker thought he could stalk women, break in while they were asleep, bind and gag them, then rape them and slip away like nothing happened? Not a chance in hell. By the time we were done with him, he was crying and begging us to let him apologize in person to all his victims. Can you believe that shit? 'Oh, sorry for terrorizing, violating and traumatizing you for life while telling you to think of me the next time you have sex with your boyfriend.' I hope he does twenty years."

"So you came to brag?" Brighton asked.

"Partly. But there was something else, something I think you'll be interested in." Royce finished the sandwich and wiped his hands on his pants; Brighton felt a wave of sympathy for his ex-partner's dry cleaners. "Why don't you fill me in on today first?"

Brighton explained the case to him. For all of Royce's personality, he knew when to be quiet and listen. And the former Nebraskan would be lying if he said he didn't think his former mentor could at least give him some advice on how to proceed. At the end of his explanation, Royce nodded. "So the feds think this guy's in league with the bomber?"

"Yeah, they seem pretty sure about it. I'm not fully convinced, to tell the truth, but I don't have a better explanation." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I just wish there was a way of confirming or dismissing it entirely. We've been all over his place and there's not a trace of who he might have corresponded with."

"Did you question him about it?"

"Yeah. One of the FBI agents did. All he would say was that he told someone – a man – about the FBI interfering. But that could mean anything. Bastard thinks he's God's tool to cleanse the world of filth. For all we know, it's God he's talking about."

"Well, why don't we find out?"

"Huh?"

Royce puffed out his chest. "I already got one scumbag to talk today. Why not shoot for another – one with blood on his hands just like the old days?"

"You're not in Homicide anymore, Harry."

"Yeah, well, I'm owed a favour or two. Something about 'years of loyal service' and all that."

"What makes you think he'll talk to you anyway?"

"I'll figure out a way."

"One that's not going to get my case tossed on a technicality? Like, oh I don't know, physically intimidating a suspect?"

Royce grinned. "I don't what you're talking about, detective. I'm just trying to help an old friend close a case. Besides, you have everything you need to make your case against Barrymore. I wouldn't do that to an old partner."

"So how do you plan on making him talk?"

" Criminals tend to be more talkative when they learn there might be something in it for them. Something that'll make their time behind bars more bearable."

Brighton immediately sat up. "You're not talking about offering him a deal, are you? Harry, you didn't see what he did to his victims. The son of a bitch beat and tried to rape a nineteen year old woman." The detective couldn't help but think of his own daughters who weren't much younger than Kim Seo-yeon. He hoped Royce was doing the same of his daughter. "He doesn't deserve mercy. If this was your case, you'd be saying you wished we still had the electric chair in this state. There's no way in hell I'm letting him get a shot at ever getting out."

"I'm not saying that at all, Jeremy. Actually, I'm saying the exact opposite. You want him to spend the rest of his life behind bars, right? So do I. But that's not going to happen if you put him in there with guys who know what he did. He'd be dead within a week. If you want him to live long enough to face prison, you need to make sure he's kept away from the other inmates. Once he realizes he's monumentally screwed, that's what he'd be looking for."

Brighton frowned. "Well… I guess. I still don't like it though."

"Look at it this way." Royce leaned forward and looked straight at his old partner, the same way he used to do when trying to convince him of something when they were riding together. "There's no harm in trying. If we fail, we'll all have the pleasure of knowing Paulie is having a nice fun time with his fellow prisoners."

Brighton sighed again. "Alright, there's no harm in trying." He stood and picked his jacket off the back of his chair. "We'd better get there before the feds decide to shut us out completely."

Royce also stood up. As he stretched his legs, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out – a small silver recorder. "Just so I don't get any more brutality complaints," he said with a smile.

The two men made their way down to the holding cells and were quickly let in once Brighton explained what they were going to do. Like with Scott Jackson, there were no other prisoners in the room.

Paul Barrymore was in a cell near the back of the room, which was usually only done when the others were full. Exceptions were made, however, when it came to really bad suspects. It was almost as if there was a fear of criminals infecting the area around them, and in the eyes of some officers, the farther they were away from these guys the better.

Barrymore didn't look any happier this time round. He slouched on the metal bed and refused to make more than a split second worth of eye contact with either of the men as they entered the cell.

"Hello Paul," Royce began. "I'm Detective Royce. I think you've already met Detective Brighton. We'd like to have a few words with you if you don't mind."

"I ain't saying nothing." The words came out in the form a snarl from the prisoner's mouth.

"That's a real shame. I think we could have a good chat, you and I. But before we do, do you mind? Just a few formalities." He took the recorder out of his pocket. "To make sure there are no questions of character." He switched it on and proceeded to read Barrymore his Miranda rights. "How are you feeling? You doing okay? I mean, I know the facilities are pretty lousy here, but all things considered, are you fine?"

"I'll be better after killing that FBI bitch. Had the gall to try to tell me what to do, can you believe that?" Barrymore's words seemed to flow with visceral hatred, his refusal to talk now seemingly out the window. "A _woman_ trying to tell a _man_ what to do! This whole world's going to hell in a hand basket."

"Well, don't worry about the FBI. As far as you're concerned, they're finished and done. But there's a little problem they still have. Someone's been detonating bombs across this city and they're a little anxious to put an end to that."

"I told them I didn't blow up anything!"

"I know," Royce said in an understanding tone. "And I believe you. Blowing up buildings would cause massive casualties and that's something you don't do 'cause you wouldn't have control over it. Might accidentally kill some good god-fearing people by mistake, am I right?"

"Yeah, that's right." Barrymore nodded. "Can't kill someone who's destined for Heaven. That would mean I might end up in Hell!"

Brighton remained silent, but inside he was asking himself how the man thought rape and murder would keep him in God's good graces.

"But you know who did set off those bombs, right Paul?" Royce continued. "Who was it?"

Barrymore looked away. "Don't know nothing about that."

"Sure you do. You mentioned it to Agent Prentiss."

"Who?"

"The FBI agent who interviewed you. You told her that a man said you shouldn't hold back on any of your enemies, no matter what your opinion is on that."

Barrymore sneered, "Whatever I say is between me and God. Simple as that."

"So you never spoke to anyone about the bombings."

"Didn't say that."

"Then _who_ did you talk to?" Brighton's patience was running out.

Barrymore leaned back and smirked. "What's in it for me?"

The Homicide detective was already at the end of his rope. In his opinion, they shouldn't even be talking to this scumbag. They had more than enough evidence to put him away for life. And he was confident that his officers and the FBI could track down the bomber or bombers on their own. He was just about to get up walk out of the cell when Royce leaned forward. "How about a chance at survival?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Let me enlighten you, Paul." Right in his element, the older cop leaned against the bars. "Where you're going, God doesn't matter much. Lots of guys on the inside get religious; it never seems to do them much good except convincing them they'll eventually go to Heaven or Paradise or wherever their god resides in spite of all the bad things they've done. I've seen guys massacre whole families – execute them one after another – and not think twice about it 'cause they're sure they'll be granted access past the Pearly Gates simply because they've read the Bible. Now you might still think that applies to you too, but a lot of the homeboys inside won't."

"What are you talkin' about?" Barrymore asked.

"It means that you're the lowest form of shit in there, Paul," Royce responded bluntly. "There's no level of respect for guys with sex crimes. And I'll tell you this – a lot of inmates like to give those guys a taste of their own medicine. Personally, I'm not a fan of prison justice, but I also don't cry when murderers and rapists are carried out feet first."

"You can't threaten me like that!"

"Not a threat. Just a fact." Royce smiled. "Now, should you offer us some information that would lead to a lot of lives being saved and get some really bad people off the street, we might just be inclined to help you out a bit."

"Help me out how?" Barrymore demanded.

Brighton said, "We'll put in a request with the judge. You plead guilty to all charges and we'll ask that you to serve your time in solitary confinement away from the general population. You won't have a constant target on your back." The detective felt like he was making a deal with the devil - a deal which was in no way justified in his mind. He could almost taste the sourness in his mouth, like he had just bitten into a lemon. But it was a hit they'd just have to take.

"Or you could take your chance in court," Royce added. "That's your right, of course, but I can't say how well it would go with all the evidence against you."

Barrymore seemed conflicted. He didn't want to admit to his guilt – classic of narcissists – but he also seemed to have a sense of self-preservation. It was clear to him his belief that he was on the side of righteousness couldn't stop things from not going his way. His imprisonment was one indication of that. He didn't want to risk his life as well. "What guarantee I got?" he asked, still trying to sound like he had some modicum of control.

"The guarantee that if you cooperate with us, we'll make sure you make it to court," Brighton said. "This is the best possible thing you can get. Give us something, Paul."

"Why should I believe you?"

'_Cause I'm about to break your fuckin' skull, Paul_ was what Royce wanted to say. But that would get the bastard off quicker than he could blink. Instead he smiled and said, "'Cause we're the ones who are holding all the cards, Paul. We're offering you a chance to help yourself. We could take all this to the D.A. right now, but we're spending some quality time including you in it instead. Give us something and we'll give you something in return." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Your choice."

"I don't know his name," Barrymore said quickly. "Not his full one. But I know other things about him."

Brighton and Royce exchanged looks. The latter pointed the recorder close to the suspect's face. "Let's hear it. From the beginning…"

* * *

><p>"Where the hell's my vest?" Carl Reinhardt demanded. "It was right here!" His eyes swept the small storage room in search of the missing item, landing on the man on the other side. "Hey! You take my vest?"<p>

Shaun looked at him coldly. "No, I didn't. Why would I? I got my own right here," he said, holding up the green camouflaged item.

"Well, it's gone! I saw it right up until the moment you walked in here. You sure that's yours? If you're lying to me, you're a dead man!"

"I didn't take your goddamn vest. I brought mine in with me. You probably tossed it away without remembering it."

"Not a chance! I didn't toss anything!"

"Then you lost it."

"I couldn't have. It was right _here_!" Reinhardt blindly stabbed his finger in the direction of where a bunch of other equipment lay. "Vests don't just get up and walk away!"

Shaun repressed the urge to shoot the man where he stood. God knows he had enough heat for it. "Speaking of walking away, why don't you turn and walk over to that shotgun over there, then stick it your mouth and pull the trigger? If this is the way you handle your stuff, you'll be a liability."

"How about I take that shotgun and blow _your_ head off instead?"

"You couldn't if you tried. And your vest is behind you by the way. If you bothered to look down, you'd have seen it the first time."

Growling, the bank robber snatched it off the floor. "You're a real fucking piece of work, aren't you? All smug and shit just because you were paid to kill while the rest of us had to _work_ to earn our money."

"Carl," Shaun said in a low dangerous tone. "If you don't shut your mouth right now, you're going to be leaving this room in a body bag. I'll show you how I was _trained_ to kill to earn my pay."

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. You get to play soldier - for now. But after tomorrow, we'll see if you're still such hot shit."

As Reinhardt stomped out of the room, Shaun shook his head. _Tomorrow_. After tomorrow, he promised, Carl wouldn't be alive. He'd see to that himself.

Before he could allow himself that pleasure, he still had an operation to carry out and Reinhardt was unfortunately a part of it. He still wasn't entirely sure what it involved – the man in charge told him he'd let him know of that in the morning – but whatever it was, it was big.

If there was one thing the man in charge knew, it was how to acquire equipment. Shaun wasn't sure how he'd been able to get it all and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But that mattered little. He'd doubted the op could be carried out until he saw what had been procured for them.

The most impressive part was the firepower:

One AK-47 with six 100 round ammo drums loaded with steel-tipped Russian rounds, the kind that could penetrate cars – not to mention all but the highest levels of body armour.

One M4A1 carbine – banned for civilian use - with ten 30 round ammo magazines.

An H&K G36 assault rifle with four 100 round drums.

Two 9mm pistols.

One modified FN Five-seven Herstal.

Shaun nodded in approval. Not bad at all, he thought. It was almost like he was back in the military, except that instead of men he trusted he was surrounded by the scum of the earth.

Not for much longer, he reminded himself. Tomorrow something major would happen, the boss had promised.

And after that, who knows? Maybe something would finally turn out in his favour. Or he'd make it so.

Right after he stood over the corpses of the federal government's mercenaries.

* * *

><p>At just after 9:00 p.m., Scott crashed onto a chair in his kitchen. He released a deep breath, took in another, released it as well and dropped his head into his hands. For the longest time he didn't move, afraid of what he'd see when he looked up. Afraid that he'd be back in that cell, that at any moment they'd come and tell him he was being transferred to prison.<p>

In his mind, he knew that was ridiculous. He was at home, once again a free man, and exonerated of all charges. Still, it took a good minute and a half before he was able to bring himself to look up and acknowledge it.

He still could hardly believe what had happened. This morning, he had been threatened by the same federal agent he had spent the night with. And this afternoon, he'd been detained as a suspect in numerous crimes. When the guards came back to his cell a couple of hours ago and told him he'd been cleared and was free to go, he had been too overwhelmed by the day's events to react with anything but mute acceptance.

_Me, a mute. That's a switch._

Truth be told, his return wasn't much of a homecoming. He'd spent a good portion of time putting things back in their place after – as he'd heard from Mrs. Wraith, who'd greeted him almost immediately upon his return and asked him repeatedly if he was alright – the police had searched it for 'evidence.' Then he'd spent a good hour over dinner assuring Mrs. Wraith – who insisted on cooking for him - that he had not been mistreated in jail and that he was completely in the clear.

How exactly he'd gone from being a suspected murder to completely innocent, he wasn't sure. No one had explained it to him. He assumed the evidence had proven he couldn't be guilty since, of course, he wasn't. Either that, or Agent Prentiss had done something to get him out.

Agent Prentiss… Scott frowned as he relived their short conversation in the cells. She had made it clear – apparently crystal – that the previous night had been a mistake, her harsh words still cutting him to the core. Yet she had promised to try and prove he was innocent. Had she done that? If so, how? As far as he could tell, the only way would have been to reveal the truth, something she had clearly been reluctant to do. Was that why no one had told him about why he was being released?

Scott shook his head. He didn't want to think about that. He'd had enough to deal with for one day and right now he just wanted to put it all behind him. He'd shaved and showered for twenty minutes, hoping to scrub away the grime of the jail cell. Now, dressed in a black Nike T-shirt and matching shorts, he was eager to move on.

**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. **

The sound of someone rapping at his door quickly erased all hope of that. Scott stared at it, wishing whoever was there would leave after a few seconds. No such luck. A moment later three identical knocks followed.

**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.**

Clearly it wasn't Mrs. Wraith come back for some more chat. Maybe it was the FBI again. If that was the case, Scott had no desire to answer the door. He'd had enough trouble with them, and if they were here to haul him back in for more questioning they'd have to carry him out.

"Go away!" he called out in frustration.

But whoever was there clearly had no intention of going away. They knocked, knocked again, and then repeatedly. Scott let out a loud groan. Apparently they weren't going to get the message until he said it to their face. He got up, strode to the door and unlocked it, intending on giving the knocker a piece of his mind.

As he swung the door open, he put on what he thought of as his most annoyed and frustrated face, but it was quickly wiped away when he saw Emily Prentiss standing just outside in the hallway.

The first thing he noticed about her was the expression on her face; it wasn't one he'd seen before and very difficult to place. He'd almost have said it was a blank look except that there was a definite sign of life in her eyes as they locked with his. She was dressed in the same clothing she had worn earlier except the jacket was no longer buttoned over her blouse. Scott could see there was no weapon strapped to her side now either. Her weight shifted from foot to foot, but he wasn't quite sure if it was just something she did while waiting for an answer or something else. Either way, one thing was certain – she was _not_ someone he expected to knock on his door.

Fixing her with a look, he said, "Forget to file the interfering with a federal investigation charge? If so, just shoot me; I'm not in the mood for another trip to the slammer."

In a surprisingly calm voice, she replied, "Can I come in?"

He stared at her. "Why? Think there was something the cops overlooked that proves that I'm actually a serial killer after all? Show me the warrant."

"This is not about that," she said with slightly more impatience this time. "I just want to talk."

"What is there to talk about? You made it abundantly clear what your position was and what you were going to do. As far as I'm concerned, everything's been settled."

"Well, for me it's not. There's a loose end and I don't like loose ends."

"Is that your way of saying you'll now have to kill me?" It was a joke, but this time said without his usual quick smile.

Emily ignored it. "Can you just let me in?"

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either. Look, there's something I want to say and I'd rather not do it out here. Please."

Whether it was her tone or her look or some combination, her words swept away the desire for him to close the door in her face. He sighed and stepped to the side.

Emily walked into the apartment. She stopped just outside the kitchen, taking it all in. She'd seen the photos the NYPD had taken when they'd searched the place but this was the first time she'd actually been inside. It was appropriate, she decided; small, compact and with no unnecessary clutter. Not too much unlike her own place. Add a cat and she could call this place home.

"Want anything?" Scott walked past her into the kitchen. "Water, Coke, beer? Don't have any Heineken but I got a few bottles of Coors Light – probably the last I'll have for a while."

"No, that's fine."

"Suit yourself. Hope you don't mind if I have one." He opened the fridge, took a beer and cracked it open.

Emily waited until he took a swig. "I... came here to apologize."

Scott narrowed his eyes and lowered the bottle. "For what?"

"For how you were treated. Being accused of those crimes couldn't have been easy. And you should have gotten a lawyer when you asked for one."

"Why didn't I?"

"There was a person missing." Emily let out a breath. "Whenever that happens, the goal is to find them as quickly as possible. We… some of the evidence pointed to you being responsible for the double murder. It was a lead and we had nothing else to go on. If there's a chance we believe that the suspect knows where the person is, we'll press them more than usual."

"Ah," Scott said. "The ticking bomb scenario."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Someone's planted a bomb set to go off and kill countless people and you've got someone who you believe knows where it is. Only a limited amount of time and none for niceties. So you have to make a decision – do you torture him in hopes he'll break before time runs out, even if it goes against your values? And what if you're wrong? _What if you've got an innocent man?_"

Emily couldn't argue with that, couldn't even say what she'd do in that situation, but she didn't say that out loud. "Well, everyone now knows that you're innocent."

"Of course they do." A small smile creased his lips. "I've got the perfect alibi."

"Which nobody knows about."

That got his attention. "You mean…" he started.

"You were cleared through the analysis of the evidence. The real perpetrator was caught, the woman was rescued and the evidence backs it up." She stared at him. "No one in the NYPD or FBI except me knows where you were last night after you left your friend's house."

Scott was slightly taken back. He'd expected she'd be reluctant to reveal the truth but figured she'd have no choice – unless, of course, she was alright with sending an innocent man to prison. But now it seemed he'd been wrong. She told him in the cells that she'd do everything she could to release him and it looked as if she'd accomplished that without giving herself away. _Damn_, he thought. This _was_ a remarkable woman.

"So I guess that takes a load off your back, right?"

Emily ignored the remark. "You didn't do yourself any favours by lying about it though."

He chuckled. "What, would you have preferred I told them the truth?"

"You could have worked out a better story."

"Like what?"

"I don't know!" She waved her hands around. "Something!"

"Sure. How 'bout this one: 'yes agent, I have an alibi. I was sleeping with one of your colleagues last night. Well, sleeping's not completely accurate, but you know what I mean. Yeah, she'll lose her job if she confirms it, but hey, I'm sure that won't deter her!'"

Emily stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. "You really are a bastard."

"Thank you. I also happen to be an innocent bastard. Tell you what: next time you're the one in the hot seat, you try making up a story on the spur of the moment while trying to protect someone."

"I don't need your protection," she snapped.

He snorted. "Thanks for telling me that now." He took another swig of beer.

Emily struggled to control her temper. How could the man make her so _frustrated_? She'd come over here and instead of being grateful for her fighting for him, he was mocking her! She was beginning to think she should have left him to rot in jail and let him get out in time just like every other wrongly accused person.

"Thinking you should have left me in the cell?" His words caught her off guard. "It's okay. You're right. I'm a bastard and an asshole. That's just part of my charm. I speak up when others won't. I say things that piss people off. I guess I'm one of those people who's just bound to run into trouble no matter what I do. If I hadn't learned long ago that it was wrong, I might be stealing liquor from grocery stores now." He eyed her cautiously. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

She bit her lip. "Who taught you?"

"My mother. Had to be her. Nobody else would've."

"Your father?" she said even though she already knew about what had happened.

"Left when I was young. Don't know where he is now and don't care. He was a racist bastard. I may be a lot of things Agent Prentiss, but I draw the line at that. Should count myself lucky, I guess. Missing fathers screw with your lives."

_More than you know_. Emily drew a deep breath. "Can I use your bathroom?"

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Sure," he pointed to the door adjacent to the bedroom.

"Thank you." She quickly walked into the room and shut the door behind her.

Scott finished his beer and washed it out. It was remarkable, he thought. Just this morning this woman – this federal agent – had threatened to have him arrested. Then later he actually _had_ been arrested, though not for what he'd been threatened with. And _then_, after he'd been released, this same woman who'd helped get him out had come over to apologize for how he'd been treated? He shook his head. Some things you could predict happening. This was definitely **NOT **one of them.

He went into the hallway just outside the bedroom, hesitated and then placed the bottle into the recycling bin. Not much good the few cents he'd get in return for turning it in would do him. May as well make the Earth a greener place while he sought out his next source of income.

As he straightened back up, he felt a hand place itself gently on his shoulder. He turned around to see Emily looking at him, and noticed that her face was different – much softer.

"What…" he started.

"Shhh." She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. Her voice was equally as soft. "Don't say anything."

Her hand moved to his cheek as she leaned in and replaced her finger with her lips. He immediately responded, gently taking her head in his hand and gave himself into her. Their kiss was soft and gentle, but passionate. They kept their eyes closed, wanting to experience each other through touch. His hands cupped the back of her head, hers wrapped around his neck.

When they finally separated, Scott looked into her eyes, noting how beautiful they looked. "Thought you said this was a mistake."

"I've already crossed a professional boundary," Emily responded. "Please don't make me think about it again."

As they resumed their kiss, he half-pushed and was half-pulled by her into the bedroom. Pushing her down gently on the bed, their kiss intensified. She ran her fingers through his hair, pulled him down closer to him. He felt the softness of her long dark locks through his fingers. Their pelvises pushed together, grinding against each other, feeling the friction of the other. She pushed him away, lifted her upper body up and removed her jacket before looking at him expectantly.

The undressing this time was slow and gentle. Unlike the previous night's frantic animalistic lust, tonight was the deliberate tenderness of lovers. Each button was carefully undone, each zipper lowered, each article of clothing removed and tactfully discarded on the floor. As their naked bodies pressed up against each other, each was acutely aware of how the other responded to their touch.

Scott removed his mouth from Emily's, the latter uttering a moan in protest, but it was quickly assuaged when he began tracing his lips down her neck. He nestled the sweet spot right at base, noting subconsciously the clover-shaped mark he hadn't noticed the previous night before slowly moving down to her breast. When his tongue flicked her nipple, she arched her back and inhaled sharply.

"You okay?" he asked.

She quickly nodded. "Keep going."

He hovered over her chest for a moment and then traced down her stomach. His smooth chin against her skin sent bolts of lightning shooting down her spine. He slowly moved below her bellybutton, tracing his way down. Emily could literally feel her heart pounding, with each beat seemingly louder every time he moved down. Then, just as he reached her neatly-trimmed curls, he paused and looked up at her. She raised her head to protest and then stopped. Seeing the look on his face, she knew what he was asking her. Locking eyes with him, she gave a firm nod. He smiled, looked down and slowly lowered his head.

Emily couldn't keep back the gasp that escaped her as his mouth went to her womanhood.

"**JESUS!**" For the second time in as many nights, she found her body reacting to an overwhelming stimulus. In her entire life, no man had ever gone down on her. More than one of her old boyfriends had tried to have her do it to them but never showed the slightest interest in returning the favour. Now she was getting it back tenfold, and there was nothing she wanted more in the world right now. She reached down and pressed against the back of his head, pushing him against her.

Scott knew from the way Emily was reacting, both physically and verbally, it wouldn't be long before she reached her climax. And while he was happy to give it to her, he wanted to give her something more. He couldn't explain it, but he felt especially close to her at this moment. And a woman like this, he concluded, deserved something special – something he could give her.

His thoughts were cut short as Emily's breathing came in shorter bursts, her moans becoming more vocal, her back arching further. Scott didn't mind; he was of the opinion that a real man made sure to satisfy his woman several times before he was satisfied himself. Emily Prentiss was no exception.

Actually that wasn't entirely accurate. She _was_ an exception – an exceptionally amazing woman.

He felt her cry and a second later, a hot sweetness swept over him. It was a rare occurrence when he was able to do this for a woman, and he relished every second of it.

Looking up, he caught her eyes as she lifted her head and took a deep breath. He smiled again. "Was it good for you?"

She gave a sultry smile back. "As a warm-up, it wasn't bad," she said somewhat breathlessly.

"Well, we'd better get to the main workout then."

"If you can handle it this time."

Grinning, he lifted himself up off her body and reached over to the nightstand beside the bed. Last night he'd been unprepared for what had happened; tonight he wasn't going to make the same mistake. Fiddling inside the drawer, he felt around for a condom. He found nothing and suddenly remembered he had used the last one during his final night with Suzy, never bothering to buy another package after she left him for Chris. "Shit!"

"Looking for this?" He turned to see Emily reach into the pocket of her pants – still within arm's reach – pull out a small blue package and hold it up.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "You FBI agents always carry condoms with you?"

She shrugged. "You talked about protection. This is the best kind you can give me." She didn't bother to mention she had discretely purchased a small box from a drugstore near her hotel and almost got busted by Reid coming to get her for a team dinner. That would have been, to say the least, hard to explain.

Scott gave a shrug himself and took it from her. Tearing open the package, he removed the condom and rolled it down his shaft. Then, repositioning himself over her, he looked into her eyes again. "Are you ready?"

She wrapped her legs around his waist and nodded. "Ready."

He pushed forward and, like matching key and lock, two became one.

The sounds that escaped their throats complimented the perfect fit.

* * *

><p>Mary Wraith lay in her single bed against the wall in her bedroom. A paperback novel lay on the cover in front of her on the same page it had been for the last ten minutes. She'd hoped to be able to read a couple of chapters before going to sleep, but the sound of her next door neighbour and his late night visitor being together had long erased those plans.<p>

In truth, she had long ceased to be annoyed with Scott's late night escapades. In the beginning she hadn't thought too kindly of being kept awake at night by them, but had gradually accepted that, as a young man, he was going to do what he was going to do. At least he was always a proper gentleman, making sure his partners were always okay with what they did. And his current choice was a marked improvement over his last girlfriend; at least Emily Prentiss didn't try to act like she was in a bad porn film.

_No,_ she thought as a deep moan from the throes of passion emulated from next door. _No acting is required._

She reflected back to her own youth and the nervous times she spent with her husband on their honeymoon. Peter, God rest his soul, as good a man as he was had not been a Casanova. She was reminded of the scene in _Mrs. Doubtfire_ where Robin Williams' disguised character tells his ex-wife that 'her' husband's idea of foreplay was "brace yourself!" Dear Peter hadn't been too dissimilar in the beginning. She didn't blame him at all for it though. It was of the time period; sex for anything other than conception in a marriage was frowned upon. Pleasure was often a distant dream. She was glad that times had become more liberal and people were freer to explore different things.

After a couple of minutes of listening to the sounds of lovemaking, a bit of her traditional Christian guilt surfaced in her mind. She gazed up at the cross hanging above her bed and placed her hands together in prayer position.

"Lord," she began, "these two young people are committing original sin. Please forgive their transgressions…"

A loud double moan of ecstasy penetrated from the next door bedroom as the people in question revelled in their climaxes.

She paused and then continued. "And thank you for bringing them together and granting them such explosive chemistry."

* * *

><p>Emily lost track of the time she lay under him. She had vague memories of him disposing of the condom and turning himself over so he was lying on his side against her. At some point she must have turned over as well because now they facing the same direction in the spoon position. She slowly regained her senses as her brain chemistry returned to normal and, with it, her professional demeanor.<p>

"I have to go," she said as she pulled back the covers and slid out from under the sheets.

Scott, halfway to falling asleep, blinked his eyes open. "What? Why?" he said as he propped himself up on an arm.

"You know why," she replied as she pulled on her panties and picked up her bra.

"No, I don't."

"I have to get back to the hotel. If there's a late development, I need to be there."

Scott paused for a moment, watching her dress before he sat up and said, "It's not just that, is it?"

She turned to face him as she buttoned up her blouse and then silently turned away. "Why do you do this?" he persisted.

"I told you," she said curtly. "It's against FBI regulations."

"You make it sound as if we're doing something illegal."

"As far as the Bureau is concerned, it's the closest thing to it."

"Well that doesn't make for a very good relationship."

She wheeled to face him. "_Relationship_?" she said incredulously.

He returned her look that pretty much said 'obviously.' "Well, yeah."

"We've known each other for three days." She spoke slowly as if it was the only way he could understand her. "We've had sex twice. That doesn't make it a relationship."

"So what would you call it? A hook-up? Booty calls? A _mistake_?" he added pointedly.

Emily glared, upset at how uncomfortable that word was making her feel. "Whatever it is, it's not a relationship. Sneaking around is not my idea of a relationship. Besides…"

"Besides what?" He asked as she trailed off.

She abruptly turned away and picked her jacket up off the floor. "I'm way too old for you."

"I don't believe that."

"Do you know exactly what the age difference is between us?" she snapped, turning back to him.

"No, and to be honest I don't care."

"Then let me enlighten you." She stared right at him. "You're twenty-six. I'm _forty-one_."

That truly surprised Scott. He would never have guessed she was as old as that. At most he would have said she was in her mid-thirties, but never would he have imagined she was over forty. The fact that she looked as amazing as she did at that age was even more attractive to him.

"And?" he said.

"I'm _fifteen years _older than you!" she hissed. "Jesus, I'm old enough to be your…" She cut herself off, suddenly realizing the significance of what she was about to say.

Scott attempted to break the tension. "Older lover?" he said with a smile.

She glared at him. "It's not a joke."

"Never thought it was."

There was silence for a moment. He pulled himself into a sitting position, grabbed his boxers and slid them on. "What's the clover mark on your neck about?"

Emily froze in the middle of adjusting her jacket on her shoulders. The she continued and, moving the collar over the area in question, stated, "None of your business."

"Come on," he insisted. "That's gotta have a meaning. I've never seen anybody with one right-"

"I said it's none of your business!" she snapped.

He shrugged. "Okay." He knew there was far more to the story than she was willing to tell, but now clearly wasn't the time to ask about it.

Emily laced up one shoe and turned around, looking for the second. "If you want my advice," she said, spotting it near his dresser, "it's to lay low for a couple of days. You've already been involved in too much of this case and I doubt anyone's going to believe it's just a coincidence if you turn up again."

Scott furrowed his brows. "I… I thought you caught the guy. Wasn't that the reason they released me?"

"We got a serial killer, the one who killed Chris and Suzy and kidnapped that girl." She tied a knot in the shoe. "The bomber is still out there."

"And you're going to track him down?"

"That's my job."

"And what if he aims for you next? Is that a chance you can take?"

"It's a chance we all take every time we go out in the field. That's a risk we knew about when we took with this job."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Whatever I have to do."

"And risk your life?" he demanded. "To catch some psycho scumbag? That's not good enough. I won't stand by and let that happen."

She was in his face in a second. "You interfere in the investigation again," she said in a low, dangerous tone, "you so much as set a _toe_ within a mile of it, I'll have your ass back in jail so fast you won't have time to _breathe_. And this time, you will _stay_ there!"

"Like I care," he responded, not breaking eye contact. "How is it that you're expected to risk your life every day and yet when anyone else gets involved, they're immediately sidelined?"

"Because it's my _job_! Jesus, aren't you listening? This is what I do for a living! I was _trained_ to do this! I _want_ to do this!

"What I don't want," she said more softly, "is for innocent people to get hurt while I do it. Do you understand? The last thing I want is to see your picture on the news and read your name in the obituaries the next day. This is my job; I take responsibility for it and that also means responsibility to the people I come across in it. You're one of those people."

He stared up at her. "So what you're saying is… you're trying to protect me?"

"Call what you want. I don't want you to pay for someone else's actions – or inactions. So just keep away until we catch him. _Please_."

Scott sat in silence. What could he say to that? Twenty-four hours ago he would've snorted at her and said "no promises." But for whatever reason, whether it was the look in her eye or something else, he just couldn't find it in himself to do that. He wouldn't stop worrying about her – wouldn't even stop searching for a way to circumvent those requests a little bit. But outright dismissal? No. That was too much.

"Okay," he said finally with a sigh.

A slightly easier look crossed her face. She stood straight up and took a deep breath. "Thank you." She then added, "For everything." She turned and walked towards the front door.

"When will I see you again?" he called after her.

She paused, hand on the doorknob, looked back at him and after a second gave him a small smile. Then without saying a word, she opened the door up and disappeared through it.

Scott watched as it closed behind her.

"_**Emily**_," he finished.

* * *

><p>She paused in the hallway. Looking back at the closed door, she murmured in a voice that couldn't be heard by anyone outside the corridor, "Not sure if you ever will..."<p>

She added in an even smaller voice, "_**Scott**_."

She turned and made her way down the stairs and out the front door, breaking into a light jog towards the small alley where she'd parked her vehicle. She hoped some punk hadn't found and screwed with it in some way. That would be almost as hard to explain as the opened box of condoms in her suitcase at the hotel. Thankfully, it was untouched and thirty seconds later, she was speeding down the road and out of the neighbourhood.

* * *

><p>In the darkness of the empty lobby, a figure emerged from the shadows. Watching the front doors, it waited until the dark van sped past and was out of sight.<p>

Then from a pocket, it produced a cell phone and dialled a number.

**TBC…**


	33. I-32

**A/N: Loyal readers of this story, if they haven't already noticed, should take a look at the new updated summary. It gives a more accurate picture of how things will progress. :)**

* * *

><p>Morning rose over New York, and with it came a new day.<p>

On the surface, it seemed like a typical Friday. At sunrise a new round of early commuters started their journey to work. They were weary from the week, many looking forward to punching out at the end of the day and starting their weekends. In the City That Never Sleeps, there a fair amount of people who desperately wanted and needed to catch up on sleep. This was not new nor was it unique; from all across the city, New Yorkers sat impatiently in traffic, lined up at the street markets to the smell of frying sausage or strode down the street glued to their cell phones, their conversations consisting of multimillion dollar deals, budget concerns and who was going to pick up the milk on the way home.

Eight million citizens moving together like a herd of buffalo.

And all it would take was one spark to set off a stampede.

* * *

><p>Scott was hunched over his bathroom sink. It was 7:00 a.m. and his body hadn't quite adjusted to the fact that it didn't need to get up on the hour to race off for work. In fact, it seemed to be getting him out of bed even earlier. He'd already been up for a good hour, had a measly breakfast of dry cereal and orange juice, washed, dressed… for what? He had no job to go to anymore. But he did need a paycheck and he doubted anyone was going to come and offer him something out of the blue. And with no computer, he'd have to do things the old-fashioned way; he'd have to go out and look.<p>

And he would – as soon as he felt like it.

Scott didn't know what was going on with him. He'd felt strange ever since he woke up. It wasn't sickness – at least he didn't think it was. No, it was more mental – the weight of something on his mind.

_Something_. He snorted. That was a laugh, standing here pretending to analyze over what could possibly be on his mind when he knew damn well exactly what it was.

_Emily Prentiss. Agent Emily fucking Prentiss._

For three straight nights, she'd been the last person he'd seen before drifting off to sleep, the last two of which he'd spent the night with her. It had been amazing, exhilarating, mind-blowing each time. Yet with each encounter, the closer he tried to get to her the stronger she'd pull away. Why?

Last night, she'd come to him, to talk she'd said. And they did talk – for a while. After that, their words had turned into actions, initiated by her. He'd come to her that first night, and she had returned the favour. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that she hadn't really come over to 'talk.' Who brought protection with them if all they were planning to do was talk? Then again, he didn't know about the life of a federal agent. It had to be hard, always being on the road and dealing with copious amounts of stress. Maybe the entire FBI team here was packing their suitcases with Trojans.

But in that case, if Agent Prentiss did follow that lead, he'd only be the latest in a line of travelling quickies. And she didn't seem to be the quickie type. Oh sure, maybe at some point she had – he didn't know and really didn't care to know – but from the sense he got, she was much more than that type of woman.

For the first time, he realized that he was no longer that type of man. It was like a fisherman who was used to catching trout, only to one day reel in a marlin. There were few women in the world that truly could send his mind going like this, maybe only one – Emily Prentiss.

_What the hell's going on with me?_

Prentiss had entered his life and turned it upside down, and at heart he didn't know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. She'd left him with more questions than ever; for now, at least, she wasn't about to answer them.

There was only one other person he could think of that could possibly help him out. He walked out of his apartment to the one next door and knocked.

The answer came after just a few seconds. "Good morning, Mr. Jackson," Mrs. Wraith beamed as she opened the door fully dressed for the day. From her chipper nature, Scott surmised she had already been up for several hours.

"Morning, Mrs. Wraith. I hope I'm not disturbing you, but-"

She immediately waved that away. "Not at all, my dear boy. When you get to be my age, you find yourself with a lot more time on your hands and not nearly enough people to fill it."

"Could I come in and talk to you for a moment?"

"Are you alright?" Her cheerful nature turned serious for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just…"

"Felt like you needed to talk," she finished.

He relaxed a little. "Yeah. If it's a bad time, I can come back…"

"Not at all!" She pushed open the door. "Come right in! I'm delighted for the company."

Scott followed her into the kitchen where he sat in his usual seat. His neighbour went over to the stove where a frying pan was sitting on one of the burners. "I was hoping you'd stop by actually," she said. "I scrambled more eggs than I intended to and didn't know what to do with them. You haven't had breakfast yet, I hope."

His stomach chose that time to give a firm loud grumble. "I did, but it really wasn't much of one."

"Excellent!" Mrs. Wraith distributed the eggs onto two plates and set one down in front of him. The smell and steam coming from them set his tastebuds wagging. It had been too long since he'd had real eggs. "Anything else I can get for you? Tea? Coffee?"

"No, that's fine. Thanks."

She sat down and they began to eat. Mrs. Wraith watched in amusement as the young man practically wolfed down his portion. "I'm glad to see your appetite didn't go with your job."

Scott looked up at her in confusion and then back at his near empty plate, seemingly realizing only just now the speed at which he'd consumed the meal. "Crap. I mean…"

She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't seem like you thought of it like that."

"No, it's not that. I didn't mean to seem rude, that's all."

"No offense taken. And to be frank, I'm not surprised considering your late night workout with a very capable athletic partner."

Scott's mouth opened and closed several times. Mrs. Wraith added, "My bedroom is right up against the wall next to yours, Mr. Jackson. You know that. Now I suppose I could be a miserable, cranky old buzzard and complain about the noise, but that would be pointless. What have I to complain about? That you enjoy a healthy sex life? You didn't ask for anyone to hear your private moments. If I blame anyone, it would be the builder for putting in such thin walls."

He fidgeted in his seat. "Yeah, well… I definitely don't mean to offend you or anything. I just…"

"I understand." A smile creased her wrinkled face. "And I'm glad that Agent Prentiss seems to as well. The two of you have an _explosive_ chemistry."

His face turned bright red. "Actually, that's why I came over here. I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, dear."

Scott leaned back and took a deep breath. "How does a woman act if she's truly interested in pursuing a man?"

Mrs. Wraith looked rather surprised. "That's more complicated than you might think. May I ask what prompts that question?"

"In a word?" He looked at her. "Emily Prentiss."

"I was under the impression that she answered that for herself last night."

"It's…" He let out a breath. "It's complicated."

"How so?" She pushed her plate to the side and folded her hands in front of her.

"She came to my apartment last night. Said she just wanted to talk. I let her in and she said she was sorry for what I went through with the cops and all that. Told me I didn't deserve to be treated that way, but that I hadn't made it easy on myself by lying about my whereabouts."

"Did she also happen to mention that she could've easily provided you with an alibi?"

"No. I mentioned it in kind of a sarcastic way and I don't think she took it too well."

Mrs. Wraith nodded. "Understandable. She had a choice that was very difficult for her to make and she didn't do what she knew to ultimately be the right thing. Confession is very good for the soul; I don't think she's fully come to terms with that."

"So she eventually asked to use the bathroom. I told her where it was and when she came out, she…" He trailed off.

"She initiated it this time," Mrs. Wraith finished.

"Yeah. And then afterwards, she leaves without telling me when, or if, I'll see her again. It's driving me crazy."

"Perhaps she figures it's the best way to make sure neither of you are in a position similar to the one you found yourselves in today."

"What do you mean?"

"I will tell you. But before I do, you must answer one question. And I must insist it be 100 percent truthful." She leaned back and cast a critical eye over him. "Do you _truly_ care about her?"

Scott was taken aback. He hadn't thought about this particular aspect of whatever it was that he and Prentiss had. Sure, he'd joked about relationships last night, but that was just heat of the moment stuff. Wasn't it?

"I…I think so," he said finally.

"There's no room for doubt, Mr. Jackson." Mrs. Wraith spoke with an uncharacteristic sharpness. "You've been intimate with this woman twice now, very happily from what I can tell. You either care about her or you don't. Yes or no. Which is it?"

"Yes," he said more firmly.

"Do you love her?"

He paused. "That I honestly don't know."

"Why not?"

"Because we're two different people." The words rushed from him now, his own fears and doubts starting to spill into them. "Because there hasn't been an encounter between us where we don't have some kind of conflict. Because there's a fifteen year age gap between us. Because she keeps reminding me that her job forbids her from getting involved with a member of a case. And because…I'm not sure she's looking for that anyway."

"Are you?" She asked.

Scot was silent for a moment. "I'd like to," he murmured.

Mrs. Wraith nodded. "Very well then. I will answer your question. As you pointed out, she has an obligation to her career, one that forces her to keep a professional relationship with all those involved in an investigation. She has already crossed that boundary twice, one of which nearly cost you your freedom. If I were to guess, I'd say that she believes keeping the ones she cares for at an arm's length is the only way to guarantee safety – both for them and for her."

Scott sat back, processing that statement. "She said something about not wanting me caught up again in the case. I told her it was foolish to expect her to risk her own life and expect others to just sit back and not do the same."

"And therein lies the dilemma," she said with a smile. "There is nothing more conflicting than how to keep someone you care about safe while not pushing them too far away. You and she share the same determination and hard-headedness; you speak out against things you perceive to be wrong and she is willing to go her own route when she feels it's necessary. It's easy to see why you would conflict so easily – it's typical with two similar people who share deep feelings for each other. You don't wish to see her hurt in the course of her job. And she wants to protect you from being hurt _because_ of her job. I could almost say it's from the plot of a novel, except the traditional gender roles have been switched."

He chuckled. "Great. Now according to you I'm a gentleman-in-distress. That'll do wonders for my morale."

"Neither one of you is a victim, Scott. It's merely a way to highlight the light and dark spots of both your lives. Agent Prentiss is without a doubt a strong woman with a focus on her career, but not much on her personal life. And if I were to be honest, I would bet there are a good many secrets she keeps hidden and locked away to shield herself and others from the dark parts of her life. You're a strong man that always sticks to your ideals and refuses to be shaped by the less-than-savoury influences around you. You reject the easy way of living life, whether suffering under an employer or pursuing a woman who doesn't slip you her key on the first date. If I were a betting woman, I'd place every last cent I had on you two having the strongest yet most complicated attraction to each other in New York City."

Scott glanced at his neighbour. It would be so easy to write her statements off as the hopeful wishes of a woman in her golden years – except for the fact that it made more sense to him than almost anything else he'd heard in his life. The thing was he'd already thought of some of the things she'd told him, maybe in different words but the message was the same. On the surface it seemed so unlikely that he could possibly have any kind of true relationship with a woman like Emily Prentiss, and yet when he thought about it, why would it? Her job? Problematic but not insurmountable. The age difference? Hardly. They were both adults, free to be with each other and enjoy each other and age was no one's business but their own. Past histories? More complicated. His own background wasn't squeaky clean and he was certain there were things in hers that she had no intention of revealing. He kept thinking back to the previous night and her angry reaction to his question about the clover mark on her neck. Was she concerned that the more time they were together the more likely she would open up and let something slip?

"What do you think I should do?" he said finally.

"You care for her, don't you?" Mrs. Wraith asked. He nodded. "Then tell her."

"How can I if she doesn't want me around?"

"Let her come to you. She did it once, and if I'm right, she will do so again. Don't try to be the stereotypical alpha male who thinks showing emotions is a weakness. That's something that only works a select few times with a select few people at certain opportunities, and this is not one of those cases. She will come when she's ready. It may not be today. It may not be for a while. But she will come. And when she does, you cannot rush her into making a decision. This is something she most likely is not used to and she will not respond well to being pressured without having some control."

"Yeah." Scott murmured. "I figured that. And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime?" She stared at him. "You live your life! You're a young man who's not even sensed the full potential you are capable of! Don't think that this is the only thing you have in your life right now. If you do, you will drive yourself insane. As much as it may not seem like it now, Emily Prentiss is not the only thing you should be focused on. Doing so will not only cause you unnecessary stress, but also end up doing more to hurt what you have with her than help it. Is that what you want?"

"No, of course not."

"Then put it out of your mind. Put _her_ out of your mind. And I don't mean in the way of your previous girlfriends. Put her in a place in your mind where you can remember what she is to you without obsessing over her. Believe me when I say obsessing will do you no good. If you take no other advice from me in your entire life, take this. And besides, women are attracted to men who make something of themselves. Don't you still have to find another job?"

Scott had almost forgotten about that. "Yeah. Can't keep buying her drinks if I don't have money to buy them, right?"

"As long as alcohol isn't the most important factor in your relationship," she said. "You have found quite possibly the most remarkable woman you're ever going to meet, Scott. You have to make the most of it. I can't sit here and tell you that you two are going to live happily ever after. But I can tell you that Emily Prentiss is a woman well worth taking a chance for something like it."

Scott nodded. He could understand that well enough, even if he didn't know how it was going to turn out. He'd spend most of his life playing things by ear, enjoying the surprise of discovery even if it didn't always turn out in his favour. This was by far the biggest thing he'd ever left to chance. The risk of failure was worth it; he just wasn't sure if failure here was a price he could stand to pay.

"I understand." He rose from the table. "Thanks, Mrs. Wraith. For everything."

"Always a pleasure, dear. No, don't bother cleaning up," she said as he made a movement to pick up his plate. "I can handle it. I need to stay strong by doing things myself." She carried the plates to the sink. "Do remember what I said though, about not making this an obsession. A true relationship is built on equality between partners, not one partner taking on all the responsibility. Give her some space – it's the best thing for both of you right now."

Scott nodded. "Sure thing." He headed to the door and opened it up.

"And don't put the onus on her to bring the condoms next time!"

He _almost_ managed to get outside with freezing for a split second. He shook his head. Even after all these years, she still had it.

_Don't obsess over her_, he thought as he made his way downstairs. _Give her space. Let it be_. All these thoughts raced through his mind as he walked though the lobby.

_Don't think of her._

And then a new one as he exited onto the sidewalk.

_What are you thinking right now?_

**TBC…**


End file.
